I am an eraser

on a #2 pencil

bought new

in 1967.

I am still pink and pliable

with sharp edges

untouched by use.

I've been forgotten

here in a desk drawer

lost to time.

My owner died last Tuesday

never looking back

to correct and change

even the small mistakes

in their life.

In the pursuit of perfection

or perhaps

non-acknowledgement of narcism

I alone remain perfect.

Opened up.

We look;

We steal the secrets,

We did not ask to know.

So many words,

Ideas,

Opinions,

And people.

Judging it,

By how it looks.

Prying where we,

Have no right to.

Into the very depths of its soul,

Of its memories.

Stealing the safety,

It might find,

Only in itself.

Sitting in the dust,

Until someone looks inside.

Battering it's mind,

By frequent prying.

Destroying its body,

And damaging its limbs.

Well-loved,

But well-hurt,

Too.

Bending in ways,

It wasn't born to bend.

Destroyed by careless caretakers.

Lonely in its corner,

With others of its kind,

Until it is wanted,

If it is wanted,

By the person,

Who wishes to know its secrets.

A storage of worlds,

Of lives,

Of imagination.

The pure smell,

Of a picture,

Painted in words.

Adventures,

Joy,

Sadness.

Kept inside its mind,

Inside its pages,

Inside its masterpiece,

Of painted words.

Creating an image,

A lifetime.

An alternate reality.

Another way of living.

Cracked spines,

And damaged pages.

To love it,

Is to hurt it.

Take a look inside the pages,

Inside the mind of a...

What is it?

Do you know?

Take a look inside a...

The shadow baby swung upside-down on the monkey bars. There wasn't an actual corporeal baby, just a shadow of a baby. Its outline was most distinct at high afternoon when discarded fast food wrappers danced across the playground parking lot. The shadow baby cavorted from dawn to dusk, climbing and swinging on playground equipment. He scaled the domed monkey bars and skittered across teeter-totters. Late in the afternoon when the shadow of everything stretched toward a vanishing point on the horizon, shadow baby could be found building castles in the sandbox just before he disappeared for the night. The children were so used to the small shadow that they played unaffected by its presence. But attending mothers and nannies all shied from the haunting image that cavorted amongst their children. Adults didn't consider unattached shadows of babies swinging on monkey bars as natural. Shadows don't exist without tangible objects that cast them. Yet there it was, frolicking right along with their own kids. Sometimes during play, the children stopped and whispered something to shadow baby and even though it made no sound, its small body looked as if it were giggling or outright laughing. That unnerved the parents even more. The shadow baby ignored the adult’s superstitious fears. One day, the children didn't come to the playground, leaving shadow baby to play alone. Then the next day, heavy-set men showed up with large, angry sounding machines and the playground was bulldozed down and cleared away. The asphalt was scraped flat and bare. The shadow baby no longer had monkey bars to swing on or slides to ride. His bouncing image melted into the scrapped and scarred pavement where the playground once existed.

#fiction #short story #random object challenge #thriller #shadows #babies #playgrounds #william calkins

You hung me on your vanity,

Beside your brush and lace,

I see you every morning,

When I become your face.

My edges are made of plastic,

To hide my too-sharp ends,

I have no choice but to see you,

So we might as well be friends.

I help you with your makeup,

I tell you not to wear white,

When the camera tells you you're ugly,

I say you look alright.

I know you see things like me,

Throughout your busy day,

I don't mind; I just wait here,

To make sure you get home okay.

Sometimes you look at me and weep,

And I can't figure out why.

I see every part of you, you see,

And I would never lie.

You say your eyes are too dull,

You claim your nose is askew,

You tell me your face is too ugly,

For anyone to love you.

But you don't see what I see;

I see eyes that are full of life,

With a deft nose, and a strong face,

Able to overcome any strife.

But even though I see your face,

Each morning and every night,

You don't believe that you're beautiful,

And you don't think that I'm right.

So you bring your fist up to my face,

And you splinter it through my heart,

Your fist is bloody, but you raise it again,

Determined to tear me apart.

I now lay broken on your floor,

Beside your brush, beside your lace,

The last thing I think, before falling asleep,

Is I'm glad to have been your face.

i was made with care

and handed to my owner

sometimes she remembers

to place me on her wrist

other times I think she

forgets that I’m hers

*sighs* er, quite strange

how can she forget ’bout me

her beaded bracelet surely~

i just don’t understand it

at this rate I feel like maybe

i need to take another role

perhaps i can switch to

becoming what she needs

to tie her braids, or hair

whichever suits her really

as long as she remembers me

c’mon, i am made of beads

*clears throat* oh here she comes

oh~ she remembered to grab her

black hair tie— uh, that’s it I will

have a little chat with the hair tie

when they get back from the store-

*gasps*, never mind she’s picked me up

#shellbracelet ©

sunday. 20th October. 2019

The old house stood strong as it had done for so many years protecting the family that lived within it’s walls. The House had watched the children be born within its walls, watched them grow up, and with great saddness watched them move away. That saddness was nothing compared to the day that the two remaining occupants decided that the house was to large for them, that they needed to sell the house and buy something smaller. The quiet house grieved in silence as it watched the family it had been so loyal to, so protective of, walk out of it’s front door for the last time.

I sat there for hours. Watching. Waiting. She'd be here any second. I knew it was past the time she was usually home.

5:47 pm.

I knew the time, of course. I glanced over to the door again. Nothing. I looked around the room and my eyes caught on him. There he was in the living room, sitting pretty, carefully polished by the cleaner every Tuesday at 2:39 pm. I mean, he would know that, too. My competitor, I thought bitterly to myself. No, no. I couldn't think that way. He was my... friend...? No, not that. I mean, we had never spoken, but she looked at him far more often. He was "a gift inherited from her grandfather". Psshhhhh. Whatever.

5:54 pm.

But he was in great condition. Enviously, I stared at his shining hands, his numbers, the creases all cleaned carefully, grooves free of annoying, uncomfortable dirt. He was tall, taking up space almost to the ceiling, unlike me, sitting like the little lazy tubby I am on the mantel. he could stand on the ground himself. I sighed to myself in my mind.

6:09 pm.

The lock of the front door clicked and she stumbled across the threshold, grocery bags overflowing in her arms. Not a second glance for me before she speed-walked into the kitchen. But hey, she was home.

Once more I get to prove my worth.

Eight months I wait for this very day.

I can hear the snow, its crisp and cold as he lays me in it.

The bindings are solid and ratchet tight.

The tuning is perfect, wax is solid but slick.

My edges are fresh, sharp and shining.

He’s been looking forward to this day as much as I have…

And we’re off.

The first few turns are always the hardest.

Thighs loosening…

I’m doing my best to bend to his will.

We hate falling on the first run.

Understanding the snow takes time.

Its packed but not hard.

The new thin layer on top explodes into the air as we cut into it.

He’s getting the feel for it now.

I’m turning less and accelerating,

Speed is the goal now.

Carving is slow and calculated

Can’t lose speed.

The snow passes under me quickly now.

I barely have the time to feel it,

Or hear it.

It conforms to us now.

I can feel his mind is in another place.

His weight gently leans and guides me.

Knees absorbing the bumps and ruts,

We’re one with the hill.

And in only minutes it’s over.

I separate from his boots and we board the gondola.

Its time to live again,

Our affair with the mountain.

Made from death and sold with a dismissive intent. Bound and tied together then boxed and shipped. Lying on a shelf surrounded by replicas it catches the eye of a lonely and inspired sole who takes it home. Living on a desk, then in a bag, and in the hands of this person. Containing the thoughts and dreams, the doodles and drawings of a person looking for an outlet. Eventually, over time it holds characters in a world of their own. It becomes not just paper and ink, it becomes what this person will call their draft, their stories, and their diary. Then it sits on a shelf, then in a box, and then in a garage, because this person has found something they like more....a fresh holder of their mind and heart. A computer...

A small pink rabbit, sitting on my bed.

White floppy ears and an unstable head.

Tucked into a blanket, of Whinny the Pooh,

looking at stuffed animals thinking I'm no better than you.

Sitting on a bed of twin size,

sometimes herself, or in a desgise.

Bow coming undone,

from all her fun.

Is kept in bed, when not in a game or scene,

backing down from the humans, always so mean.

Does she feel lonely, or maybe controled,

but helplessly sitting there, for the future to unfold.

Every night, so very long,

a little girl comes, to sing her song.

She may curl up against her beloved Cuddles,

before slipping into into dreams, and her own befudles.

Than the girl leaves again, leaving Cuddles to her own mind,

though the rabbit will promise that the girl is kind.

She knows that the day is soon,

when a girl with plushies is considered a befoon.

The rabbit knows this semi-good life will draw to a close,

her big brown eyes, and little pink nose.

Put in a garbage can, and driven far away

to where the now-big-girl won't come to play.