Inanimate Objects

It's Alive!

Write a story through the eyes/thoughts/feelings of something that is not living. Think about the pencil you are holding, or the desk you are sitting at, or maybe it’s the recycling bin at the front of the room. Look down on the ground; maybe you are the little frilly from someone’s old paper or a piece of muffin left over from breakfast. Perhaps you want to get outside the box? Maybe you are the flag that flew over Iwo Jima or a door handle in the White House or a small, mysterious trinket on the mantel at home. It can be anything, as long as it’s not alive.

Here are the top stories from this assignment. Please excuse formatting; the transferred documents do not necessarily reflect the final products.

WARNING-this page contains some strong language.

Valentine’s Day Purpose

by Olivia Stowell (2020)

Sitting on a shelf at Target, I wonder what my purpose is. I am comfortable and cozy in my slot, placed under a red, translucent heart cover. I look around at all my companions in their designated spots, half covered in delicious, brown chocolate. I notice their speckled red bodies and vibrant, green leaves. I assume I look the same. I know we are designed for some holiday, overhearing the mumbles of my companions, but why? What is my purpose?

I hear chatter outside in the hallways of the store. “These would be perfect for her, today. I want to show her how much I love and appreciate her,” a deep man's voice says in front of our shelf. I feel the box shuffle and shake as he picks us up. I peer through the top of the clear cover. It seems this man is buying us. Oh how interesting! After paying for us, he takes us out of the store to his nice car. I can’t make out where we are going, but I hear a loud muffler and our box jerks on the seat. I listen as I am sitting in my cutout spot. I hear the man speak.

“Hey, Dad. Just calling to ask a question. I got Carey chocolate strawberries for Valentine's day. Should I get her something else along with it? Today is a big day.”

“Hey son, maybe some flowers? Good luck! I am beyond excited for you,” his dad says with enthusiasm.

“Okay. I am taking her out to a special dinner tonight. Thanks Dad, love you.”

The speaking stops and so does the movement. The man leaves and comes back a few minutes later with these exotic leaves. Looking through the top of the cover, they look so much prettier than the stems on us! I lean over to ask my friends about them.

“Guys! What are those?” I ask with a bit of curiosity.

One of them looks at me weirdly and says, “Don’t you know? They are flowers, silly!”

While pondering the idea of flowers, I notice I am feeling a bit warmer than I was in the store. My shell is starting to get soft. The man then starts the loud sounds and moving again for a bit, until we reach what seems to be his house. He grabs us and puts us in this cold, blue place. It is very chilly here and I like it! I overhear mumbles next to me about a fridge. I can assume that is where we are. My chocolate shell starts to harden again, which feels much better.

I believe a couple hours have passed since he stuck us in this fridge. The man opens the cold door. He’s wearing a black suit and his hair is combed back. I see him put a small black box into his pocket. I wonder what that is. He picks our heart box up, grabs the pretty leaves, and makes his way out the door.

The man drives us to a different house. A girl opens the car door. She is wearing a red dress and her hair is all curly. I think it's the girl “Carey” he was talking about! She’s pretty. I got a quick glance at her before the man quickly shoves us and the pretty leaves into a dark bag and put us in the back of his car. I think he doesn’t want her to see us! I can’t see them anymore, but I can hear their conversation. Through this whole journey, I still wonder what I am doing here and what my purpose is. I’ve asked my peers if they know why we are here, but they expect me to know. All my other friends seem normal and calm, like they know something I don’t.

The moving stops. I hear the car doors open and the man grabs us. He is walking us into a loud area. I think we are at the fancy restaurant he was talking about with his dad. He sits the bag we are in on the ground. I can still see a glimpse of the two through the top of the bag. They talk, eat, and drink all night. At one point, he unexpectedly pulls the flowers next to us out of the bag. The man hands them to Carey and she is joyful about receiving them. It makes me wonder... am I for Carey? They seem happy to be with each other on this beautiful night. I feel a sense of cheerfulness watching these two people together.

Then, something interesting happens. From the top of the bag, I see the man stand up and get down on one knee.

“Carey, Happy Valentine’s Day. We have been together for four years and I love you more than anything in this world. You make me the best person I can be. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you make me the happiest man in the world and marry me?” he asks while pulling out the small box from his pocket.

“Nick, I have no words. I am so in love with you, yes. Yes!” Carey says shedding tears of joy.

The two hug and kiss as the whole restaurant claps for them. Then all of a sudden, the man grabs our heart box out of the bag. I think it is my time to shine!

“I also bought you these, I know how much you like them,” he mentions while handing our box to her.

“Aw! Nick, thank you so much. You’re the sweetest. I love you!” Carey says with excitement.

“I love you, too.”

She opens the box and picks me up. I know what my purpose is now. I am a symbol of love, joy, and happiness. I bring people together with my mushy, pink center, and my sweet chocolate shell! Nick bought me along with all my other friends to show Carey how much he loves her. I am content now as she takes a bite out of my sugary, chocolate coating while smiling at Nick.

The Reflections of a Lens

Ryan Sutton (2019)

I’ve always wanted to know more than just what I see. I mean, I guess I got the better half of the deal in comparison to the inner workings of our body because I can see and the gears can’t. But they do know so much. Oh, I’m sorry. You probably don’t know what I am. I’m the camera on Ryan’s Iphone. Now I know, I get to see everything and it sounds like a great deal, but I never sleep. I’m always on and I never stop seeing. Even if it’s the inside of his pocket or face down on the floor-I have two cameras, you know? I see from the main camera and the selfie camera.

Now I’m not going to sit here and pretend that everything’s shitty, because there are a few positives. Fortunately, the microphone is an extension of my general functions so I can make sense of things and, in a way, take in the whole picture. I’ve also been able to see things from really cool and unique perspectives. I’ll explain.

Here’s a little backstory on Ryan. He’s obsessed with making movies, videos, and short films. So as a result, at least compared to other models of my model series, I’m utilized to my full potential and then some. What other camera on an iPhone can say they hung from a tree branch above an abandoned warehouse by nothing but a flimsy tripod and duct tape? Oh yeah, Ryan’s kinda broke. And when I say kinda, we’re talking like really fucking broke. I can’t say I’ve been able to meet some of the high end camera/phone equipment that the pros use. It does keep it interesting, though. I mean sure, I’m terrified hanging upside down from a tree branch held by a cheap tripod and duct tape but it adds an element of excitement. A little “edge-of-your-seat” action if you will. Plus, it never ceases to amaze me the creative substitutes for camera equipment that Ryan pulls out of his ass.

I remember this one time when Ryan was filming a short film with his friend Chris. I’m pretty sure I heard Ryan call it, “The Reminiscence of Innocence”. Anyways, I’m being tossed between the two of them as they do their thing when I’m put on the seat face down so all I can see is the roof of the car. Ryan was trying to figure out a way to get a shot of Chris through the window while he was driving. Chris was saying how Ryan could run next to the car but Ryan countered saying the reflection would show how slow the car was moving. They went back and forth a bit, and I waited on the seat.

Okay, so this is a bit off topic and may feel like a choppy break in the story but I just gotta put it out there that seats are disgusting, especially when you’re forced to be on them. Imagine how many asses have sat in those seats. Plus there’s always that one guy who just ate at Chipotle for lunch and is discreetly ripping ass directly into the seat. Anyways, that’s what I was thinking in that moment and any time I’m face first in a seat, for that matter but back to the story.

So they kept spitting ideas until finally Ryan made a suggestion, a suggestion that made me want to shit myself out of fear. The mere notion of the idea was terrifying. He suggested they strap me on a tripod and then directly on to the side of the car with duct tape and let me film while Chris drove. Long story short, they did it and not to brag on Ryan’s behalf or anything, but it actually worked. A little bumpy but he was still inexperienced and for an amateur, I was pretty damn impressed. That and I was glad I didn’t fall off the side of the car and slip under the wheel.

I’ve also been there for the moments that Ryan doesn’t know about. I don’t sleep remember? Just because I’m turned off doesn’t mean I cease to function. I’ll never forget seeing Ryan’s face when he got the text from his first ever girlfriend that it was over; seeing the multitude of emotions flash across his face in a matter of seconds; seeing the shock go to anger, then sadness, then embarrassment; seeing him get up from his lunch table and head to the bathroom; seeing him go up to the mirror and watching him from his hand as he stood there, trying to keep it together. He swore a lot that day.

I remember him going into the stall and firing off an angry text. I could see him typing, then deleting, through the reflection on his glasses. The confusion and blind anger was heartbreaking to witness. I remember him staring at the send button. There was so much going through his head, I’m sure, and then seeing him finally hit send. The white light of the phone dissipated from the reflection. He put me in his pocket, and I remember hearing his buddy Matt walk into the bathroom as Ryan was leaving. I remember him saying it would all be okay and then giving him a bro hug.

My camera roll is pretty extensive as well. I mean, assuming Ryan hasn’t deleted anything. There’s so many cool videos and pictures. My favorites, though, are his progress pics. For years, I listened to Ryan bitch and moan about his weight and how unhappy he was. Last year, he finally started eating better and this year started working out, all the while taking progress pics. It’s great to see him get more confident and post a lot more on his Instagram. Confidence really is key.

As I sit on Ryan’s laptop and he writes this paper, it’s a good time to reflect. While I’m getting a pretty slanted view of the screen, I’ve been able to read it all and it reminds me of the good times I’ve had as a camera. Like I said earlier, I’m used a lot more than the other cameras in my model series and getting to know Ryan through hearing his conversations and seeing him has made me feel better about myself. I feel important, needed, and essential to his success on YouTube.

The Protector, the Survivor, the Watcher

Chloe Masson (2019)

My resume is extensive. My position bends in-turn as my circumstances change, and change they have. I remember a young girl named Jackie, though it has been many years since: from toddler to child, a girl as curious as she was bright-eyed. I was one among her many child-like possessions, but even then, I was her favorite and I knew it. Perhaps it was my top hat which had designated slots to allow my fuzzy ears to poke through. Or, perhaps, it was the stuffed cane I held in my paw, or the monocle on my marble of a left eye. Perhaps it was even my red button-down vest, my white undershirt, or my black collar bow tie. Whichever culmination of factors have allowed me to be the Survivor, I have been in her life in some little way ever since she was born.

I remember them all. The others, packed away, one by one over the course of many years. The first to go was her baby blanket. It was small, tattered around the edges, and even a bit dirty; a hand-me-down from her mother when she was just a little girl, who had received the gift from her mother, given, received, given, received. Though, as tattered, dirtied, what-have-you the blanket may have been, it was pink—thin? old? small? Fine, but pink—a detail of utmost importance to her. She would sleep with it every night and absolutely refused to quiet down if she did not have it. It was quite the frantic scene, actually, to see such a small child throw such a tremendous tantrum. Over a thin and worn piece of cloth, no less. It covered her entire body when she was little, both in age and size. I would know—In the night, I was stationed to her crib as an infant, her twin size as a toddler; I saw it all. Having said that, I was quite shocked to have witnessed the event that transpired on her eighth birthday.

Jackie’s usual nighttime modus operandi, which consisted of cradling her beloved blanket as much as it cradled her, was instead contested against a confident and poised swagger that paraded her all the way to her parents, blanket in hand, declaring she no longer had a use for it. She outgrew it, in both a figurative and literal sense. A girl who had once proudly wielded it every night insisted with unwavering certainty she did not need, did not even want the tattered-and-dirtied-but-most-importantly-pink piece of cloth anymore. Her parents looked at each other with hesitant eyes, but Jackie would allow no protest. Thus, the first to go was her blanket, just like that. Gone. It took the sentimentality-induced tantrums with it as it left, and I haven't seen one since.

The next victims were her illustrations. Jackie was not a gifted artist (and don’t dare take offence to the truth, Jacqueline), but loved to draw nonetheless. Triangular dresses, rectangular tees, pentagonal houses; indistinguishable figures, stray lines of limbs, circular palms, hand-in-hand, which one could only assume were family portraits; coloring outside the lines, making the sky green, the grass blue. It didn’t matter to her whether or not it made sense (and, ha, it definitely did not matter whether or not it had any sort of aesthetic presence).

What was more important, I believe, is doing whatever she wanted to because she felt like it, because it was fun. Nothing more. Amidst everyone attempting to find significance in every little breath, she took the time to enjoy her simple hobby, purposelessness and all. She wore her lack of skill as a badge of honor, adorning the scribbles on torn pages of her notebook to the free spaces of her walls, covering any free area she could find.

Her room was a collage of innocence, of free-spiritedness. And I, depending on wherever Jackie stationed me that day, watched from different angles of the room as the figures in her drawings looked back at me. They radiated her youth, her innocence, perhaps even naïveté. The drawn family of three never stopped smiling. That family, a product from her stream of consciousness, never retracted their interlaced hands. They raised and swayed their joined palms in perfect synchronization to wave to me, eternally connected. To say the same about the family in real-time, the one beyond the four walls in which I am contained, would not be true.

Just like their daughter, those expectant parents started bright-eyed, eager to be alive, eager to let live. “This one!” the mother had said, beckoning her newly-wed husband over to the shelf. He walked over with a different teddy bear in his hand, shifting his glance between us.

“I don’t know,” he started. “Which one do you think Dawn would like more?”

“I think Jacqueline would like this one more,” the mother said, making a point to emphasize her name. She giggled as she danced me in her hands, shifting me from left to right. “Come on, it has a cane! A monocle!”

“Alright, alright,” he succumbed. “You win.” He poked my nose, then his wife’s, and walked away once more to put the other teddy bear back upon the shelf from which it came.

After that, it was a waiting game. I gathered dust until Jacqueline (the wife did in fact win) was born. On that fateful day, I became the Protector, most comparable to… Well, the most fitting equivalence would be the Secretary of Defense, I suppose. While Jacqueline was merely an infant, my job was easy. There wasn’t much to be done. She cried, naturally, but her fears weren’t tangible enough for my intervention. And so, my sole duty was to be a hand to hold while she slept in her crib. However, once she grew old enough to understand fear, danger, paranoia, and the likes, my job was a bit more intense: fortifying her state of mind.

“Surround the perimeter near the frame,” I would command. “I want a blockade. Allow no escape route from underneath the bed. If there’s a protrusion, anticipate the monsters will capitalize.”

And so my orders were obeyed without hesitation, all for Jackie’s sake. It was not my job to debate whether or not her fears were justified, and it was not her toys’ job to debate with me. I fulfilled the duties of my position regardless of the plausibility of the places from which they stemmed; my purpose was to mitigate those fears, real or not, to protect her from her own mind.

Make sure the closet door was closed as she slept. There’s nothing in there, darling. Turn off any blinking lights at night time. It’s just your clock, dear. Tuck her feet completely underneath the covers. Nothing can, nothing will grab you, love.

Odd-jobs, one may call them, but I was the Protector, and that was what I did: Protect.

But I’ve digressed a bit, haven’t I…? Ah, yes, the illustrations. The bags under the eyes of those once bright-eyed parents grew darker day by day. Unfortunately, nothing man-made was built to last, even the eternal bond of two souls: their love had stretched, strained, and twisted over the years. As such, Jackie’s illustrations of happy families became more abstract, more distant.

When one particular fight went drastically more south than nights prior, frantic, heavy stomps hurriedly carried Jackie to her room and tore the drawings from her walls in tears. It was a pathetically upsetting sight, watching a ten-year-old rip her tangible faith and freedom from the walls and into crumple it into balls on the floor. What was debatably more upsetting was her rampage gone unnoticed, a mere speck on the timeline of arguments between lovers fallen out of love.

Under the freshly-shredded papers revealed a pink wall whose paint job was in mint condition, a tell-tale symptom of walls that had rarely seen the sun. They had always been covered until then, but alas, much like her blanket, all it took was a single instance to eradicate an entire piece of her childhood from her life.

She believed she could not be a passive passenger of fate while her parents fought for control of the steering wheel, ultimately destined to crash no matter which had managed to be the victor of the reigns. No, not her. Jacqueline was nobody’s victim. Age thirteen onward, she took control of those reigns herself, hellbent on steering her own fate. The last of her stuffed animals were packed away with the exception of myself. She had a job of her own, schoolwork devouring the rest of her spare time. I had a new station and could not move from it: to this very second, I sit upon a white shelf on the wall closest to the door, not an inch of the room I cannot spectate.

For whatever reason, I had the honor of watching as my men, my friends, were deemed too immature to serve a further purpose. I had the pleasure of watching the one I swore to protect grow tired of her childish nature and desires, as if she could not both be taken seriously and admit she was scared of being alone, wanting a stuffed hand to hold more than anything at the same time. As those events transpired, I became the lone Survivor, former Protector.

With that, I am brought back to present-day. Jackie, who now prefers to be called Jacqueline, has nearly finished packing boxes. It’s a funny thing, really; she’s been packing boxes all her life. The first victim was her baby blanket. The last one, the final victim, is me; I am the final piece, the only Survivor, the remains of her room and childhood alike.

Watching the ground with every step as to not trip over her many boxes, she makes her way over to the shelf I’ve been stationed at for so many years. She holds me at arm’s-length, and I bask in the feeling. I desperately needed a stretch.

“You’ve really seen it all, haven't you, Teddy?”

It’s Theodore, really, but I’ll make an exception for you, Jacqueline.

“After all these years, you haven’t changed a bit…”

Ha… These are her final words to me, aren’t they? I take them in, revel in them. I’d fully embraced my inevitable kismet by now. Having watched the others tossed aside, how could I not? I know I, too, despite being her favorite, will be packed along with the others, another fragment of her adolescence to be shunned and cast away. Those boxes, the type I am bound to occupy, are entirely separate from the ones she intends to bring to college, almost as if the sole purpose of her belongings is to demonstrate to the world Jacqueline is mature enough to be treated with respect.

“...and I still love you all the same,” she finishes.

Wha… Excuse me? But she is supposed to… This is the part where... I’m… speechless, plainly. No, more than that—my expectations shattered in the most endearing of ways, but concurrently in a way that also leaves me lost and confused, almost angry to not have faced the same dreadful end as my compatriots. Was I wrong? Was I a fool to attempt to accept fate, to welcome it? I—

“There was always something about you, something that stopped me from packing you away. I don’t really know what it is. I don’t really know what anything is, honestly. I just try my best to make it look like I know everything, like I can handle anything. And would you look at me now? I’m talking to my teddy bear. I’m actually crazy.”

She laughs to herself solemnly, and I’m surprised to see a single tear drip down her face.

“What’s sadder: it took me over a decade to realize this, or I only came to this conclusion ‘cause of a little stuffed bear with a cane and monocle?”

She sniffs, readying herself to say what she needs to. She does not know I can hear her. In fact, she does not believe anyone can hear her. For what seems like once in a lifetime, she’s speaking from the heart, not caring who’s listening.

“Things were just so bad with Mom and Dad, I… I guess I just felt the need to grow up. To be the adult of the house, if no one else was going to do it. I gave up everything, to prove what? What does it matter now?”

Tears are now free falling from her face and onto the carpet floor. “But at least I have you,” she says. “And as long as I have you… As long as I still have you, I still have me. I can be me again.”

Those who believe change functions like a snowball running downhill are simply mistaken. It is not something that can be measured over time. It does not have a pattern, a rhyme, a reason. Change is sporadic. It can be gradual, a little every day, or it can be sudden, all at once. For me, I have Protected a young woman until her troubles expanded too far outside the four corners of her room for me to reach. I have Survived the test of time, contended against the many playthings she possessed, the rest of which have been absent years since passed. Above all, from infant to adulthood and everything in between, I have witnessed a girl fall victim to her fate, and a head-strong young woman rise from those ashes.

And to you, Jacqueline, I am proud to have watched as you win. Yes, I do believe that is my most important job, to have Watched, to have been there from start to finish, a witness through thick and thin…for I am the Watcher, former Protector, and lone Survivor.