In a Corner

IMG_1212.JPGThis painting (Golden Flowers, 24×18 sold) has nothing to do with the following story, which I wrote some years ago. Eh-maybe the table’s in a corner. Anyway, the story was written for a class, and the prompt was “write about something from the point of view of an inanimate object in your home”. Enjoy!

In a Corner

Transcriber’s Note:

                   The following is a transcription-without editing-of an encounter between a Mr. Thomas Smith and an inanimate object in his home. Because it is told in the words of that object, I have kept the exact wording as is, despite obvious temptation on my part to edit in order to show people and/or situations in a more favorable light.

“So’s this guy-my owner, I guess, comes up to me and he says Hey, I wanna interview a inanimate object in my home so’s I can write a story. I picks you. Ya picks me? I says back to him, what, after ya pick yer nose? What is this crap? Come on he says-I bet you gots all kinda stories to tell. I knows ya can do a really good job. Hell he says. It’s just fer my writin’ group, and they’s easily impressed. Impressed? I says back to him. What, when I impress yer head on the floor after I falls on top of ya? Cut the crap.”

“Yeah, sure he goes, but will ya do it?”

“What’s in it fer me? I asks. Why doncha go ask the couch? I says.  It can tell ya all about the asses that’s sat on it fer 20 years. It told me once about this chick who…”

“Alrightalready he goes. Just do it fer me he goes. Ya know, if it wunt fer me, ya coulda ended up in some smoke filled dump with Handgun Weekly, or Coon Hound Quarterly he says to me.  But not you. Oh no he says. You got better stories to tell. You’s known all them classics. He says (I think I got this right) stuff like SteinMart, er Steinbeck, Heming and haw-no wait, Hemingway, and that God book-whadya call it-the Bilbo, er Biden, er…”

“So tell me yer stories he says. How’s it felt like all these years knowin em? he asks. Pour out yer feelings he tells me.”

“OK I says. C’mon, ya gotta getta grip. Hey I yell to the Blender. How many margaritas ya make fer this guy anyways? Geez.”

“So look, I says. Who’s writin’ all this crap down? It aint me. Who do ya think woulda taught me to write? The piana? Ha! It can’t even carry a tune. So no, I aint got no stories, exceptin’ if yous counts hows I was made by hand  (ha-some hands them factory workers had-why I oughta…) then I’m stuck on some truck, put in a friggin warehouse and bought by some bimbo who puts me on the third floor of her dumpy flat so’s when ya took me-ya weakling- I almos’ didn’t make it here in one piece. Then I gotta put up with 20 years of sittin’ in the corner with all kinds of crap weighing me down. Ooh-people look at me and they says how impressive-quite the scholar, aint ya But they aint talkin’ to me, you moron, I says. You’s the one loadin’ me up with all this crap.”

“So waddya want-my story? I asks him. Ha! I already done give it to ya, I tells him. Want more? Make it up yerself I says. Then I looks at him and laughs.”

“But ya know what? Ya wanna know what? And this I aint tellin him:  I really wanna learn how to read.”


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