I am not really one to name inanimate objects. I am that guy who refers to his truck as “my truck,” and to my favorite fishing pole as “my fishing pole,” but for the prompt I will humor. I recently wrote a story called “Heebie-Jeebs,” which was inspired by a couple of pre-cancerous bumps on my scalp. Being fair-skinned and spending much of my life outdoors, the little bastard-ly bumps are not uncommon on me, certainly nothing that Dr. Lau cannot quickly freeze, or dig out with a sharp instrument. But the little shits know their man, and always come back. Dr. Lau implores that I wear a hat in the sun (which I always do), but still they come back in their never ending quest to turn truly cancerous and drag me (kicking and screaming) underground with them.

There are currently only two, but they are on the very crown of my skull (which is where the Heebie-Jeeb story began). To my wife’s chagrin, I constantly worry at them with my fingers, so for this prompt I have decided to name the larger one Ol’ Scratch, and the smaller one Beezle-Bump.

I have nothing else to say about Ol’ Scratch or Beezle-Bump, except that they are more irritating than rodents in the pantry, or excrement bubbling up from the bathtub drain, and that this is one of those many things you have to look forward to in your old age. Godspeed to you.

I must go now. The little devils have begun their fiddling, and so must I.

i exist

for one purpose.

ease.

i am meant to be cheap,

dispensed out in varying degrees of plastic

to elementary students

at lunchtimes.

they call it

convenience,

the way they can eat

soup or salad

with me.

i exist to be malleable,

shaped to the whims of the day.

soup, salad, pasta, soggy broccoli,

i must shovel it all

with gusto.

as the public school system

cannot afford

forks and spoons,

they must settle

for me.

the inexpensive alternative,

discarded after every meal.

used

but never seen, nor heard.

if they were to listen,

i could tell them

that my name isn't spork at all.

i do not fit into the label

they have chosen for me.

my name

is foon.

He's been sleeping in my bed for the last 8 years.

When my husband is away, I let him come over.

I let him into my bed. I wrap my legs around him to forget I'm alone at night.

I lean into him. He holds me upright.

His caress is soft and he smells like clean linen... and me- much better than my husband does.

He gets tired every now and again. His caress grows unnatural, lumpy, rude.

I kick him out and I sleep alone.

And if he's gone long enough, I start to think I might be able to live without him.

But then my husband comes home

and I get the sweet relief of leaning into someone again...

So I bring him back into my bed.

Or maybe I just replace him entirely.

For someone bigger, better, softer.

I hold him and he holds me.

Allen. My darling. My body pillow.

Reginald the Rock is no ordinary rock... oh wait, but he is.

He's as ordinary as the come, but, Reginald has a secret; Reginald has many.

Reginald the Rock has seen many things, and traveled many places.

Once, a small child plucked Reginald from a stream.. The child said "Oh, hello, little rock. you're coming on an adventure with me!" And with that, the child ran off with him.

Reginald was so excited, he'd never been on an adventure before. They hiked through the woods together, said 'hello's to many other rocks along the way.

Reginald was very pleased with the view as the child ran with him in their hand.

" Mom look I made it myself ! It's beautiful right ? " I showed her proudly my bookmark wrapped in tape to protect it

" Yeah it's really beautiful sweetheart. " she smiles widely " Did you make it yourself ? " she asked while drawing me closer to her to depose a gentle kiss on my forehead.

" Hmmm... " I turned back and gave a guilty glance to my dad who was laying against the door frame. He ended up laughing and came to sit next to my mother

" Why don't you answer to the question ? " he asks with a malicious grin. So I stood up and went to him

" But she doesn't know that you helped me and I told her that I did it myself. What should I do ? " I whispered quite loudly in his ear, pretty concerned about the current situation.

" Well you should tell her that I helped you just a tiny little bit but you made 99.9% of it." he whispered as loudly as me. I nodded and sat in front of her

" Ok so I almost made it myself but Daddy helped me this tiny bit " I gestured

" Oh so you lied to me uh ? " she put her hands on her hips, faking her anger with a hint amusement on her face

" Hmm no I didn't... " I said with a tiny voice

" Oh yes you did, you little naughty girl ! " she exclaimed and started to tickle me. I was laughing uncontrollably...

This bookmark, carrying this beautiful memory with it travelled through the tons of books I read, from the fairytales of my precious childhood, to the romance books that fills my lonely moments during which I would hope that one day my life would be similar to what I read.

Many years later

" Hey Tess look what I found in the box with all your books " my husband calls me from the hall of our new house cluttered with many piles of boxes

" Hey it's John ! " I exclaim and rush to take it

" John ? You gave a name to bookmark " he laughs

" Yeah, because it's more than a bookmark to me... " I sit and stare at John for a moment.

It became old, a bit damaged, but I didn't care about it because the beautiful memories it contained were intact.

Is this it? Is this all there is for me? Is there nothing more in this life for me?

Day after day, night after night,

TIME AFTER TIME...this is my life now it seems: they eat, they wash me, they wash me, they eat! Over and over again!

I mean, come on! This is madness! Is there no end to my suffering and misery?

My friends are all here in this kitchen rack and they're not complaining. Maybe they've settled into this kitchen-life

and stopped yearning.

Not me though. That's where I

differ from those friends of mine...for what I want is to live

in excitement, fun and with variation!

Battered and bruised, torn up and used. I am a necessity and a forgotten memory, once part of me is gone I am thrown away.

Or I am forever stuck friendless and alone pushed in the bottom of the drawer or back of a closet. Sometimes I get caught in the rumble cycle of life and lost in a place or no return, a place only in the warmest of dreams.

There was once a little slate blue vase named Sue. Her home was the side table behind the couch. Her job was to hold a single fake purple rose, but she didn't mind it.

Sue was often forgotten about, her insides filled with dust and bugs ran around the table she called home.

Then one day a strange man came running around the corner and tripped upon the table where she stood.

With a great tumble Sue fell to the shining wooden floor where she shattered into a million shards of glass.

A woman came and picked up her pieces and began the long process of putting Sue back together again.

Weeks later Sue was back at her dusty home, holding her single fake purple rose, but this time there was something different.

She was not just a little slate blue vase anymore, for now she was laced with gold.

She is square

by no means small

and for me

always there

and not just

in after thought;

She was pale-

faced and fair

...She is aged

but like film

stars, without

as much decay;

and though we

have moved on

She has not...

Waiting rather

than stopped;

facing out all

that has gone-on

to waste except

the Time with

which we have

been graced...

She was in

our youth like

the Art Deco,

a movement

precise yet

unburdened

with details

as such...

we knew each

figure by heart

the contours

which tiptoe,

as marks on the wall

...even in the dark

though to be sure

we left the little light,

as it was charmingly

called by the door

to the bath

so no one

should fall

Her hands

were by far her

dearest parts

to behold and

when we'd pace

day or night

she would

gesture and cluck

in that tongue

of les objets

tres foreign...

while we, as

he, she or many

soliliquied.

When she came

to us as a sort

of Governess,

she was chic

with no make up

and though designed

for dressing up,

we dared not...

we liked her best

with the rouge

and black liner

washed off.

She could have

stood many a

color no doubt

but those were

the two that

we had in the box

...then we too

grew more

sophisticated

and sauve

with slates

blank and

far off...

I know

she is still there

struck in awe;

stopped merrily

in the long

of corridor,

all the way

at the end of

the hall... faceless

white and square

I've named her

only just so...

after all this time,

our timekeeper...

...Rosie...

Notre horloge.

01.16.23

Inanimate Objects Challenge @Melpomene