Fiddler on the Roof
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.
spork
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.
Allen
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
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.
Spoon’s the Name - A Spoon’s Rant
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!
Socks
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.
Sue
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.
Rosie
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
Skill
Boy, girls
scouts learning
skills acquiring
them solitary pushing out
silence skill
One day,
hours rolling round your head,
times twentyfour
no of forming lips in sounds loving, hungry
silence skill
one day
hermit sittin lonely on the training tree
silence skill
why
are all boy girl scouts
skill of silence passed
most brilliantly saying nothing
now editors?
being silent
when you send your email docx heart to them
empty mail
received
I watch
for eternity
cursing
boy and girl scout
silence skill