Creative writing

Pecans

   By Azhy Robertson

Frank is a chair.

Frank doesn’t know how long he’s been living as a chair. It’s hard for him to remember a time in his life when he wasn’t confined within a wooden frame, his four unmoving appendages digging deep into the softened and slightly crooked floorboards of the Carson family abode. He knows that at some point he experienced the trials and tribulations that come with possessing a human anatomical structure. He remembers, albeit vaguely, the urges he often felt whilst constricted within a humanoid form. The urge to relieve himself was his least favorite, he recalls. 

As a chair, Frank lives his life with a profoundly dull serenity. He is, at all times, aware of everything going on around him. He hears the Carsons come home, one by one, after school or work each day. The order in which they return is always the same. First is Mary, who works as a schoolteacher. Frank knows, thanks to The Clock who is positioned directly above and in front of him on the kitchen wall, that Mary leaves for work each morning at 6:15 AM and returns home at 4:45 PM. Once she arrives home, she begins preparing dinner for the family at around 4:55 PM. Next to arrive home is George. Frank recently heard Mary say that George was entering into his “Freshman Year” in “High School.” George leaves home at 7:00 AM and returns at 5:15 PM. Frank usually only catches a brief glimpse of George when he returns home. Frank knows that George goes upstairs to his room almost immediately upon returning to the house. 

The final member of the Carson family to return home each day is Thomas. Thomas works as an accountant. Thomas leaves the house each day at 6:00 AM, but Frank never sees him return home at the same time each night. Some nights, he returns at 6:00 PM, some nights at 10:00 PM, and sometimes Frank doesn’t see Thomas until the next morning. 

Frank looks at The Clock. It’s 4:42 PM. Mary should be returning soon. Frank wonders what she will prepare for dinner tonight. Some sort of pasta, he guesses. The door opens. Frank hears a loud sigh; Mary is home. She sets down her medium-sized Coach purse on the kitchen counter and stretches her back. Frank wonders if she had an especially exhausting day today. 

Mary begins walking towards the kitchen cupboard. She reaches into the cupboard and retrieves a box of Barilla-branded penne pasta. Frank was right. 

Frank often has the urge to move his four limbs or make facial expressions, but since he is (and always will be) a chair, he knows that he will never be able to. He likes to believe that this state of being allows him ultimate and ever-lasting contentment. His eternal passivity is a gift, he likes to believe. 

Mary now has a large pot in her hand, which she is filling with water from the kitchen sink. The Carsons have a very nice kitchen, although its polished marble tile and countertops contrast with the antique, somewhat rustic wooden disposition of the rest of the home. Mary places the now full pot onto the stove and begins to boil the water. She picks up the Barilla-branded box of penne and transfers the pasta into the pot of boiling water. At that moment, Frank hears a voice.

“Wow, Frank, guess these damned Carsons are having some damned pasta tonight!”

It’s The Clock. Sometimes it talks. 

“Wonder if that damned woman Mary is gonna make some goddamned sauce with that pasta!”

Frank ignores It. The Clock always seems to have harbored a strong disdain for the Carsons, especially Mary. It is now 5:10 PM. George will return home from “High School” very soon. As Mary begins making tomato sauce while the pasta boils, Frank notices, for a split second, something peculiar. Mary’s ankles, which are just barely showing over her socks, seem to be brown, grainy and particularly solid today. Mary walks further into the kitchen and Franklin loses sight of her ankles. 

Frank hears the front door open. It’s 5:13. To Frank’s surprise, it is not George who enters through the doorway, but Thomas. Thomas releases a slightly pained exhale as he enters. He throws his coat haphazardly onto the coat-hanger and bends backwards to stretch.

“Mary, I’m home!” Thomas exclaims.

Mary cocks her head away from the tomato sauce and boiling pasta to look at Thomas. 

“Hi, honey! How was work today?” Mary asks.

“It was quite alright. I got a lot of auditing done today.”
“Well, that’s just wonderful to hear. I wonder where George is, usually he’s home              from school by now.”

“I’m sure he’s just engaging in some mischief with his friends. You know how teenage boys are.”

“Damn, George is engaging in some mischief! How goddamned wild is that?! Our good old little George!” The Clock yells. 

Frank notices another peculiarity, this time regarding Thomas. Thomas’s pointer finger on his right hand is completely solid, almost a block. It has the same texture as Mary’s ankle. Thomas looks up at the clock for a moment.

“You’re probably right, honey. I’m making us some pasta, do you want anything with that? I could grate some parmesan on top.” 

“Actually, could you sprinkle some of the pecans from the cupboard on top?”

“Pecans? Are you sure? Well, I suppose that could taste interesting.”

Frank sees Thomas glance over at him for a brief moment. He begins walking into the kitchen, towards Mary. Thomas stands directly behind Mary now. Frank hasn’t noticed him blink since he came home. Mary has retrieved the container of pecans from the cupboard and is opening the jar with some effort. Thomas lifts his right pointer finger and lightly taps Mary on the shoulder with it. 

Mary gasps. Beads of sweat form on her forehead. Her eyes close. She grimaces. She cannot bear to look at anything. She writhes, her body contorting geometrically into incomprehensible shapes; Frank hears snapping as she bends backwards so far that her head is touching the floor. She takes another inhale; it’s as if a hundred thorns are piercing her trachea as she gasps. She stays impossibly still for some moments, her back still bent impossibly far behind her. She does not exhale. 

Thomas is still standing behind her. He lifts his right pointer finger again and taps her once again. 

Mary lets out a shriek. The Clock has been laughing ever since Mary’s body began twisting in on itself. Thomas plugs his fingers in his ears; excitement is visible on his face. Mary’s eyes open unnaturally wide. The back of her head seems to be rapidly expanding outwards. Mary’s eyes roll back. Her head is now almost double its normal size, its growth forcing her neck to bend forward. Frank hears another crack. Two solid mahogany legs suddenly burst out from the back of her head. Thomas slowly backs away from Mary’s body, a faint grin on his face. Mary’s scalp flies off. A trail of blood has been left behind under her head. Entrails cover the polished marble countertops. Her legs begin to bend backwards at the knee, their lower halves still completely upright. The skin on her legs is sagging. She lets out another scream as all of the flesh on her calves falls off, revealing two more mahogany legs covered in blood and muscle tissue. Her torso begins to shrink, bringing the two sets of wooden legs closer together. Her back straightens itself out completely, and her spine exits from her body like a worm emerges from a tunnel of dirt. The sides of her torso are stretching out. Her ribs burst out from her midsection. All of the skin on her shrunken torso melts away, revealing a mahogany seat. It attaches itself to the two sets of legs. The front of Mary’s head seems to be expanding outwards now. Her eyeballs, of which only the whites are visible, are being pushed out of her head by two narrow wooden rails. Her eyes pop out of her head, her optical nerves trailing behind them. What’s left of her skull splits in half as the two rails become attached by a back post made up of several slats. Mary bears no resemblance to her previous form now, other than the remnants of her internal organs still covering parts of her new wooden configuration. Thomas picks up a microfiber cloth from the kitchen counter and walks over to “Mary.” He thoroughly wipes the remains from her seat and legs. He walks back to the kitchen and throws the filthy cloth into the trash can. He picks up the jar of pecans and opens it with some effort. He reaches into the jar and grabs a handful of pecans. He eats them. His wooden finger seems to grow larger. He looks at The Clock and smiles. 

“I’ve done it, Dad. You can rest now. Aren’t you proud?”

The Clock says nothing. A tear falls down Thomas’s face.

It’s now 6:30 PM. “Mary” is positioned directly next to Frank now. He wonders why he can’t hear her speak. He hears the door open. Thomas, still eating pecans in the kitchen, glances over at it. George walks in. His eyes look tired, but the remnants of a grin are visible on his face. He walks in, waves to Thomas, and heads for the staircase to his room.

“George. Sit down. I’ll pull up a chair,” Thomas says.

George stops in his tracks. He reluctantly walks over to the dining room. His left ear looks abnormally brown and grainy. Thomas drags “Mary” towards George and beckons for him to sit. Frank can feel himself being dragged over by Thomas as well. He is now directly across from “Mary”. Frank feels a weight push down on him. Thomas has taken a seat. George sits down on “Mary” as well. 

“What’s up?” George asks.

“We have to have a serious discussion about the crowd you’ve been hanging around with recently.”

Thomas is lifting his right hand. He is extending his pointer finger. 

“Where’s Mom?”

Sundays are tired. By noon I have largely forgotten the faces of the rotating cast of staff that have been rung up to my room, and by one o’clock their tasks have faded from mind as well. I cannot say the same for my own work, however- it matters greatly to the world, in ways I could not verbalize if asked but I can assure you will never be forgotten.

On Sundays I reminisce. Fame burned towards me like a bulb, dim until its brightest- and at its height too hot to ever touch. But the screen has and will always dim that light to a palatable glow. Through the TV set static, actions sound just a hair louder. The furious colors become shades of pastel, and grating voices are softened to a gentle purr.

And a note- a note to those who read religiously, who gather true armfuls and conclude your own verdict, I am sorry to have disappointed the throngs of today. Perhaps tomorrow the week will begin. Monday is for singing. 

I loved my life. I truly did. I didn’t eat, sleep, or dream—I just moved. Tick by tick, I chased the minutes by my will, shaping the rhythm of everyone else’s world. Decades ago, a craftsman who believed time could be shaped, not measured, built me. When he was creating me, every gear placed, he whispered secrets into my frame, giving me more than life— he gave me power. 

Since then, time has never ruled me; I’ve ruled it. I once sat in a quiet shop window, surrounded by others like me. I liked it there. I liked the stillness. My past owner moved me to a pawn shop.  I loved how there were so many other unique objects around me. A box of war medals, a broken guitar signed by Kurt Cobain, a life-size king chess piece. It was not only the objects that were unique, it was the people too. There were so many beautiful faces that walked in and out of the store looking for something that would not change, though everything here already had. All of these things had their own stories that came with them. That’s why I liked the pawn shop. It was quiet and peaceful. Then one day, I heard the door chime early in the morning. I didn’t think much of it because we got customers around this time often, but this one felt different.  A man walked in, sweaty and out of breath, and he seemed like he was in a rush.  The owner of the store asked him if he needed help with anything and the customer said urgently, “I need a gift for my girlfriend. Her birthday dinner is tonight.” 

“Okay? What does your girlfriend like?” the owner said. As soon as the customer responded I knew that my peace and quiet was going to be disturbed. 

“Antique clocks,” the customer uttered. The owner directed him toward a shelf lined with old clocks. I remember feeling so irritated. If he even looked in my direction, I swear I could’ve stopped his heart right then—frozen him in that single, foolish second just to keep his hands off me. The customer looked at each clock but my outer frame caught his attention. “I want this one, my girl likes silver,” he said. The owner picked me up.  I could feel my stillness being disrupted. He placed me on the counter and gave him a price. A price. My existence—reduced to a number. The desperate customer accepted it and gave him the money. The owner needed a name to put on file for whoever purchases items in the pawn shop. The customer said, “Jared.” I thought that was the dumbest name I ever heard. Jared. Repulsive. Jared picked me up and rushed me out of the pawn shop. My home. The second we hit the street the quiet collapsed—horns, shouting, movement everywhere. I was overstimulated. I didn’t even know where we were going and I hated it. I like order; it’s the closest thing to peace time ever allows. Jared was not organized at all. To him, time was something to outrun, not honor. As he rushed through the city he stopped to pick up a call from an “Ava.” I assumed that was his girlfriend. I could hear the muffled audio coming out of his phone. Ava said, “Jared, where are you?” 

He nervously replied, “Baby, I’m on my way to the party now and I have a gift for you.” I could hear Ava’s tone. She. Was. Livid. 

“Listen Jared, you are always late to everything! You have no respect for my time or anyone else's! Can you just be on time for once? It’s my birthday, please?” 

“I promise you I will be on time Ava. You have my word,” Jared said.  He checked his phone: 32 minutes to get to the dinner by bus. The party would begin  at 11. It’s 10:28. He clung to that number like it meant something. Time doesn’t take sides—but I do. If Jared had no respect for time—why should time respect him? He started running through the streets of the city, deaf to the horns, the shouting, not even acknowledging it. He was determined to make it to the train. So foolish. Jared saw the bus approach the stop so as he ran, signaling it to stop. I adjusted. My gears shifted, recalibrating the order of the world. Each tick stretched mere seconds into minutes. His body betrayed him first. Each pulse, breath, stride, just fell apart under my will. I twisted the seconds tighter, and his movement became agony: a step that lasted an eternity, a blink that never ended. He reached forward, hand outstretched toward the bus that quickly sped away from him. He looked like a statue of desperation, frozen in worship of the very thing he took for granted. Once I saw the bus drive away I sped my hands back up. I could tell Jared felt powerless at that moment. Knowing that he missed his only chance to make things right. Jared slid his body down the bus post slumping on the ground. Defeated. Not having any clue what the next move was. On the other hand, I was elated. His despair was music to my gears. Jared checked his phone and saw the next bus was not coming for another hour. 

As he was on the ground an old lady came up to him.  She told him she loved my silver frame. I was touched — until Jared said “Thank you,” like he was the one being complimented. 

56 minutes went by and the next bus was almost there. Jared took his phone out to call Ava. Ring. Ring. Ring. No answer. He tried again. Ring… Ring… she picked up. Jared said in a panic “Baby I’m so sorry about today. I don’t know what happened. The bus was literally right in front of me but I guess I wasn’t fast enough to catch it. I’m so sorry. The next one is coming in a couple minutes I’ll–” Ava interrupts “Jared. It’s okay.” “Really? Okay. Okay. Thank you. I’m on my way right—” She interrupts again “Jared. Don’t bother. I don’t want to see you again. I’m wasting my time with you. Goodbye.” Ava hung up abruptly. Jared was heartbroken. It looked like his world was shattered into pieces. I was pleased. He finally learned his lesson. The problem with him is he took things for granted. He took Ava for granted, he took me for granted, most importantly he took time for granted. Jared started walking away from the bus stop, dragging his feet through the silence of his grief.  I thought maybe now that he’s not passing me off to his girlfriend, he’d do the right thing and return me to the pawn shop. To my peace and quiet. But instead, he tried to toss me into a garbage can — and missed. 

 Now I’m lying here on a sidewalk in the middle of the city. A place with no peace, no quiet, just noise and motion.  In the city, people don’t take time for granted — they rush it.  Always running, always chasing, never stopping to listen and I am forced to watch.  I just realized — all of it, every second— was a waste of time.

Unheard Echoes

HIGH SCHOOL MORNING - HALLWAY.

The hallway is bustling. Students chatter, lockers slam, laughter echoes. Amid the chaos, Aldi Kastrioti, 16, clutching a worn backpack, moves cautiously. His eyes wander, taking in the energy he doesn't yet fully belong to.

NARRATOR (Aldi, Voiceover)

(reflective)

When I first came to America, I thought I would find freedom and new opportunities.  But freedom, I learned, doesn't always come in the shape you imagine.

A group of boys laugh nearby. One bumps into Aldi.

BOY 1

Watch it, foreigner.

Aldi doesn't respond. He lowers his head and keeps walking alone.

CLASSROOM - DAY

Aldi sits at the back. The teacher, Ms. Carter, explains a lesson about American History.

NARRATOR (Voiceover)

They tell me school is the great equalizer, a place where everyone starts the same. But how do you start the same when you speak another language, carry another world on your back and can’t even explain yourself?

His teacher asks a question. He tries to answer the question, stumbles over a word. Some students start laughing behind his back.

STUDENT 1 

Say it right, man. What's wrong with you?

NARRATOR (Voiceover)

They don’t get it. I’ve been studying English for three years, but every sentence still feels like I’m tiptoeing across a bridge in a city that isn’t quite mine.

CAFETERIA - LUNCH 

Aldi sits alone, tray in front of him. He watches a group of students laughing, sharing stories. He tries to join a table.

ALDI

Hey...hmm...can I...sit here?

The students look at each other then slowly nod. The conversation continues without him. He pushes his tray aside, sighs.

NARRATOR (Voiceover)

Loneliness is loud in a place designed for noise. You can hear it even in laughter.

NEW YORK STREET - AFTER SCHOOL

Aldi walks home through the crowded streets. Car horns, street vendors shouting in ten different languages. He stops at a small Albanian bakery and gets a byrek. It smells like home.

ALDI'S MOTHER

(smiling)

Miredita, Aldi! (eng. Good afternoon, Aldi!) How was school?

ALDI

(sighs)

Same. Hard.

NARRATOR (Voiceover)

At home, the language I carry feels lighter. I feel safe and like myself. But outside, I am always translating my words, my thoughts, even my feelings.

ALDI'S BEDROOM - NIGHT

He sits on his bed, scrolling through his phone. Pictures of his friends from Albania flash across the screen. He misses them deeply.

NARRATOR (Voiceover)

I wonder if one day I'll feel at home here. Or if "home" is always going to be somewhere else.

HIGH SCHOOL - GYM - DAY

Gym class. It’s their soccer practice class. A ball rolls near him. He kicks it with precision; it lands perfectly in the goal. Silence. Then a teammate claps. Others join.

NARRATOR (Voiceover).

Sometimes they see me. Sometimes just a flicker. And that is enough to start.

HIGH SCHOOL ROOFTOP - SUNSET

Aldi sits alone, sketchbook in hand, he draws the skyline. The sun slips behind the building, spreading gold across the windows. The city's rhythm is faster than he can catch, cars below and laughter in the distance make him dive deep into his thoughts.

He stares at his drawing then out at the city.

NARRATOR (Voiceover)

When I first came here, I thought belonging meant being invisible, sounding like everyone else, speaking without an accent, blending in, adjusting. But now... I think belonging is the opposite. It is being seen for who you are, together with the imperfections.

The wind flips a page. A sketch of his old home appears: mountains, narrow roads, a small house with smoke rising from the chimney, his favorite pie shop in the corner.

I used to think I left home behind, but it's still here, in the way I see, the way I speak, the way I dream. Maybe home isn't something you lose. Maybe...it's something you carry with you.

He closes the sketchbook gently and looks at the skyline, the first stars breaking through the dusk.

NARRATOR (Voiceover)

I am not from nowhere. I am from every word I've mispronounced, every silence I've endured, every hope I've whispered when no one was listening.

This city doesn't know me yet. But it will. One day, when I speak, when I create, when I paint, as I have always dreamed, it will hear me.

He looks down at his sketchbook, writes in the corner: Unheard Echoes. This will be the name of my first art exhibition.

NARRATOR (Voiceover)

Maybe belonging isn't a place. Maybe it's a voice. And mine, it's still growing, still learning. But it's here and it's mine.

He watches the skyline again. Light fading into night.

NARRATOR (Voiceover)

My time will come.

A quiet smile

FADE OUT.

THE END.