Object Game

[The Portrait of Zool]

Thanks for moving the story.

 

Item #2 is a broom. I haven't written it's history, but it's future, nor have I listed characteristics, but dramatized them. I WOULD like some feedback on this, if anyone is interested, and might even rewrite it.

 

Thanks for the great game idea!

 

* * * * * * * * * * *

 

The old broom stood silent in the shadows, between the refrigerator and the counter where the toaster stood. The broom had become reclusive of late, being summoned less and less to work his whisking magic. Fondly he often reminisced on the days of his youth, when his paint was still shiny and his bristles unbowed, joyously leading the way into every corner and along every baseboard in the house. “Oh, how I loved getting at that pesky dirt.” he finally remarked with a sigh.

 

“You’re lucky,” said the toaster. “You don’t have ignoramus teens stuffing you willy-nilly with conglomerations of combustible comestibles.”

 

“Whiner!” shouted the blender from across the kitchen. No one denied the blender had a tough job, and that he was kept far too close to that hot headed oven, though the food processor gave a quiet snicker. The refrigerator kept its usual chilly silence, while the microwave kept the time.

 

Just then people entered, bursting through the door like popcorn. For a moment a flicker of hope shined in the broom, but was quickly extinguished. It was the teens again, only the teens. They seemed to shun him the worst of all the people.

 

As usual they approached the refrigerator and microwave. Lights flashed on, beepers beeped, the room was filled with a microwave hum. The broom felt the draft of cold air around his bristles from the open refrigerator door, but that was the only motion he saw. “That’s okay,” he told himself, “I’m numb to the disappointment now,” but of course he wasn’t.

 

One of the teens seemed most impatient. He seemed irritated he wasn’t able to get his snack to the microwave first, and didn’t want to wait the two minutes for his turn. Taking a thick pat of butter and laying it on top of his Hot Pocket, he laid the whole assembly into the toaster and pushed down the knob.

 

“Ack!” said the toaster. Within thirty seconds, the butter was rapidly melting, pouring highly flammable oil into its vital parts. A few seconds after that it started to smoke, and then ignited.

 

“HEEEEEEEELP!! I’M ON FIIIRE! OH MY GOD I’M GONNA DIIIIIE!” screamed the toaster.

 

The teens started screaming too. The one who put in the Hot Pocket slid the toaster into the sink and turned on the water. There was a brilliant flash and all went dark. And silent.

 

Then one of the teens burst out laughing, and then another, but the one who still didn’t have a snack was close to tears. “Oh shit! Dad’s gonna KILL me!”

 

“Gonna kill you…?” said the toaster weakly. Smoke still poured from him like a chimney.

 

Then the dad came in. “What the…!?”

 

The rest was bedlam – but the broom remained unused, and even worse, the poor toaster, deemed no longer useful, was taken from the kitchen to The Dumpster. The broom was never to see his friend alive again. He was sickened by the loss of his friend, and was frightened to his core on account of his own worn condition.

 

“Dear God,” prayed the broom, “Please don’t let me become un-useful and thrown away like the toaster whose only mistake was efficiently doing what was asked of him. Please God, don’t let that happen.”

 

Just then the mom came in, and in her hand was a new broom. With her usual quick efficiency she pulled out the old broom and replaced him with the new, shiny, stiff bristled broom. “Sucks to be you!” called out the new broom with a laugh as the old broom was carried helplessly out the back door – out towards The Dumpster.

 

Time seemed to slow down for the old broom. Slowly the mom went down the steps, one… two… three.

 

The broom felt he was being carried to nothing less than his execution. “Please don’t!” he cried. “I know I don’t look new, but I have many years of good sweeping left, I know I do!” His anguished cries fell on deaf ears however, as they kept advancing to The Dumpster.

 

She stopped in front of the large garbage bin. She slowly lifted the lid. The broom looked down to see the smoldering ruin that was once his old friend the toaster. The fetid odor of rot and ruin engulfed him in despair. Resigned to his fate, he shut his eyes, ready to accept his discarding with dignity.

 

And then… he felt another hand close around him. He hovered over the ravenous maw of The Dumpster.

 

“No need to throw that away honey,” said the dad. “He’ll be perfect for the shop.”

 

Nearly crying with relief, his heart rejoicing, smiling from handle tip to head, the old broom was carried to the shop, where he chased after pesky dirt for many, many years.

 

...And up on high, the broom gods smiled with him.

 

(moved from Cabaret by Ayshela)

Edited March 13, 2007 by The Portrait of Zool

[GeldrinHor]

OOC: OK, I tried for a bit of humour, but also tried to express what might be the feeling of that little plastic tool most men both love and hate. And so I present:

 

IC:

 

The Comb

 

 

 

The sun rises over the window sill, flowing and filling the silence of this shiny walled, scantily clad room. "Too many reflective surfaces, too much LIGHT" he thinks to himself. Sitting on the shelf in a glass walled prison overlooking the gaping maw of the glaring white porcelain of the sink. Looking down, he can still see the small loose hairs clustered around the opening of the throat of that great white beast. "Far too much light" he continues, looking from the sink to the other parts of the room, another shiny porcelain fixture attached to the wall right beside his perch, with an even bigger maw, and a great gurgling deep throat, and silliest of all, a two layered hat, the bottom part having a great hole in the middle, the top part a heavy, even shinier plastic.

 

The window had been left open to the night, and the warming breezes started coming thru into the room, along with all the dastardly light. "At least it feels like today might warm up some" he thought, as he reached his teeth deep into the cool, stagnant water in his prison. Then came the noises...."it's rising", he thought, hoping to be released soon. As the human stepped into the shiny room, the battered old comb was relieved to see the man walk over and drop the mini-blind into place. But drats, he even took the time to spin that little rod and open them up to allow a bit more light in anyway.

 

After waiting for, what seemed to the comb, like forever, the man finally finished his first of the morning ritual on that tanked beast down below, and stepped over to the next shiniest object, the huge tile walled shower. As the man turned on the water, stripping off his night clothes, he stepped over to the doorway and flicked up the plastic switch attached to the wall. Suddenly, a soft, bright glow went around the room, lighting it up once again in the glare of too much light!

 

As he stepped into the shower, pulling that garish multi-colored, shiny curtain across, the man began singing. That might not have been so bad, had the man been able to carry ANY kind of a tune. Ten minutes later, tho it seemed nearly eternal, the singing finally stops, and the running water is once again silenced. As the loud curtain is pulled back, a wet, shiny arm reaches out, grabbing the only DULL thing in the room, that giant fluffy towel that hangs next to the window. A few moments later, he steps out of the shower, walking over in front of that giant reflective monster just above the combs head.

 

"Alas....finally...yes!" the comb is ecstatic, as it is finally his turn. Finally the old comb feels it's thin, wide body gripped and lifted from it's round prison, water dripping down the barrel of it's long back. As it rises up over the crown of dark, lustrous, tangled wet hair. The comb is brought down to do it's one great duty in life. Diving into the front of a huge dark wave, the comb bites down, dragging great shanks of the dark curls backward over the mans head. After several strokes like this, the hand gripping the old comb stops, and the man begins to sigh, saying to whomever might be listening, "Oh no....not more today". Suddenly the comb is set down upon the shelf, one end dangling not too far above the great throat of the sink, as the man looks deeply into his own reflection, dragging his fingers thru his own locks, a deeply worried look upon his grim visage.

 

Meanwhile, sitting by himself on the shelf, the comb begins to feel a mild panic, as it starts to gag. "What did you get into my teeth?" thinks the comb, trying desperately to spit the wads of tightly curled human hair tangled in several of his dull black tines. Moments later, the saddened man picks the comb back up, yanking most of the hair free from it's teeth, and lifting it once again, to control the waves atop his head. As the curls once again surround it's narrow teeth, the comb begins to hum. The sides of the head are the easiest, as the hair is always thinner there, less likely to be grabbed by the eager teeth, and usually more well behaved, lying properly against the tops of the ears. Back to the top, the comb is dragged thru the heavy forestation along the front of the head, but things suddenly seems to get lighter near the crown at the back of the head. Suddenly the comb clears the heavy, thick hairs and seems supsended above a shiny, very thin patch of hair. The patch seemed to have nearly no hair upon it, shiny, blotched skin being easily seen below the sparsely littered spot. Moments seem to drag as the man yanks the comb back down, his free hand reaching back to rub over the bare spot left there. The comb is dropped to the shelf once again as the man grumbles, calling out..."Honey, can you please come here for a second, I need you to check something for me". Shortly, another human, this once shaped rather differently, with much longer, more lustrous hair trailing down the back of her head, and falling in wavy curls down her back, enters into the glaring shiny room. "Rod, what's the matter dear?" she speaks, looking at the frantic, dejected look upon the mans face. "Can you take a look at the back of my head...something doesn't feel right back there". and he turns his back to the mirror, leaning back a bit so his wife can check out what he points to. "Oh my" seems to be the response as the woman reaches up to stroke the bare spot on the back of the man's skull, "I warned you about wearing a hat all the time. Looks like you are losing some hair, and a nice little bald spot is now occupying the area where your cowlick used to be" At this, she giggled a little, and the man growled about following in his dads footsteps, starting to go bald at the tender age of 30. A deep sigh was heard coming from the man just as he reached down and grabbed the comb off the shelf. After several more strokes, the man cleared the loose hairs from it's teeth, running some water in the sink as he shoved the desperate comb under the rushing stream, hairs falling out below the powerful geyser. As the teeth finally released the last of the stray hairs, the man shut off the water, and began banging the comb along the inside rim of the great white sink. As the man sighs once more, he sticks the comb, once again, back into it's water filled prison of glass, swishing it back and forth a few times and dropping it to settle once again into the humdrum existence of waiting for the next morning ritual. As the man steps away, finally the light in the room dims, as the great overhead torch is extinguished..."Sigh, looks like I'll be sitting here all alone soon.", thinks the comb. Moments later, the great round-bodied brush sitting outside on the shelf, uncaged little minx that it is, giggles softly. "Don't worry, Blackie....you may be getting more use than you think."

 

 

 

(Moved from Cabaret by Ayshela)

Edited March 13, 2007 by Ayshela

[Curious Mylo]

For those who are playing the game from the "a game idea" thread in the Cabaret Room, here is where to post your stories.

[Quincunx]

He clawed his fingertips into the sleeve of his hoodie, wadded it up, and swiped the wad across the side of the bus shelter. Plenty of grit and road grease smeared onto the fabric, but that patch of plastic only improved from opaque to filthy. Nonetheless, he maneuvered the sunshine onto the area and smiled at where his reflection ought to be, while the girl perched on the balance-beam seat inside the shelter looked up from her book.

 

"You've got something stuck between your front teeth," she offered.

 

He rubbed his thumb against his teeth; she pretended to re-read the current page.

 

"Is it gone?"

 

"Look at me and I'll tell you," she replied. He twisted his head around. "Nope." She drummed her index and middle fingertips against the page briefly, then removed the bus-schedule bookmark and handed it over to him. "This is the closest thing I have to a toothpick."

 

"Mmkay." He picked out the dark bit with one corner of the cardboard, then held it over his shoulder. She took it back, wrinkling up her nose, but slipped it back into the book. After a few moments, she also took a nearly empty tube of mints from her pocket and poked him in the small of the back. "Wait, what's this for?" he remarked after looking at the new gift.

 

"If you didn't have time to brush," she said while again pretending to re-read the current page, "cover it up. And. . .uh. . .good luck."

 

"Thanks!" He popped a mint into his mouth, put up his fists and threw a mock jab at the half-cleaned patch of plastic, and grinned.

[Quincunx]

Part of being a geek is seeing your obsessions reflected everywhere. So nod and smile when I tell you, swear to you, that street sweepers look JUST like a pair of Daleks gliding along the gutters. All they're missing are the domed tops and shrill cries of "Exterminate! Exterminate!" as they clear the street of all foreign material. Thorough. Ruthless. Implacable. Can't cope with a non-flat surface. Daleks, see? Especially when they munch through something more important than fast-food wrappers. When the street sweepers stutter and slow to half-speed, atop the storm grate at the corner of Highway 41 and Oldman, that's a great example. For a few seconds, the Daleks meet resistance, human chains built up from bent bus schedules and bus receipts and the occasional beat-up left shoe (why isn't it ever the right shoe?), but then they motor through the heap and carry on like it was never there.

[Quincunx]

Cindy's first printing was a mistake; she picked the paper out of its bath with her fingertips and left a hollow in its corner as it dried. The next one, fished out with metal salad tongs and suspended by a wooden clothespin, dribbled its ink back into the bath. The third batch she forgot overnight, and they dried flat and unsmudged once the toner evaporated. These slips had unusual texture on the back side from lying against the screen, but the front was visually as accurate as it needed to be. She grinned and ran her fingertips over the surface--yes, the front side even felt like a new playing card--and sat down with a fresh stack of bus schedules.

 

Two aching hours later, each slip had been flexed ten times and torn vertically on the fold. Cindy dealt them onto the screen frames and lowered them into the water bath. After soaking the slips for five minutes, she pushed each half together and tamped the fuzzy edges with a tiny wire-bristled brush. Then she lifted each frame out of the water and dipped it into the mixture of toner and acetate before laying it on newspaper-shielded shelving. Cindy coughed as she left, and wondered if papier-mache would substitute well for a real gas mask.

 

By the next morning, the fumes had mostly dissipated, and the rows of bus schedules were dry: bus route number one with the route map of number twelve, route number three with the timetable of number nine, route number six with the special fares for the A line. Cindy distributed them into different pockets on the outside of her carrier bag and shouldered it with another grin. If enough people complained, and the main terminal's phone number was one area she'd taken care not to desecrate, there would be articles in the local free newspaper, and maybe even a day of free bus fares. Wouldn't that be a kick for her visual portfolio?

[Finnius]

And there it was, propped in a corner as if, for all the world, it had always been there.

 

Rob tore another small patch of hair out, turned, breathed deeply a few times, and ran screaming from the room, never to return.

 

***

 

Two Weeks Earlier

 

"I promise, Mr. Kosten, it's the last cleaning device you'll ever need. Completely automated, all you do is hold on for the ride, maybe walk where you want to clean... swinging it back and forth, ever so gently, as if the world weighed no more than a feather. And you can't go wrong with the simple, one-hundred-and-eighty degree angled neck or the gen-you-ine North American Redwood cleaning tips. A steal at only two hundred ninety-nine ninety nine!"

 

Rob Kosten looked at the strange, scraggly person that had badgered him on the street just outside the law firm where he worked. The he looked at what he was holding.

 

"It's a broom."

 

"Oh, nonono, Mr. Kosten, this here's not just a broom, it's a gen-you-ine Miracle Stick, carved from the finest Old World ash when the world was still young and the gods themselves needed something to sweep under the little cracks of creation, if you catch my drift. Why it was given to me not twenty years ago by a feller who, I have it on good authority, was sold it by Hephestus himself! C'mon, one-hundred ninety-nine ninety-nine's a fair price, ain't it? That's a whole hundred dollars less than the last offer, and it's not every day you come across a gen-you-ine Miracle Stick!"

 

Rob considered the broom for a moment... true, it did look to be in remarkably good condition, the handle was straight and shiny, and the bristles looked like they'd never even been used. Still, the man smelled horrible, and $199.99 for a broom was more than any sane man would pay. Rob, of course, responded in the manner of upper-middle class businessmen everywhere.

 

"Go get a job, you filthy bum!"

 

And with that, Rob Kosten pushed his way past the dirty, bedraggled old man who'd tried to sell him a gen-you-ine miracle broom for only two hundred dollars. The bum gave a vague smile and stepped back into his alley with empty hands.

 

***

One Week and Six Days Ago

 

Rob Kosten's office was spotless by nature - pristine, every small piece of furniture exactly where it should be every morning. The mighty, formica and fiberglass desk, tastefully painted in a vinyl black that matched the faux leather swivel-chair which sat behind it. Along the side wall, a commanding aluminum filing cabinet (standard issue grey, with none of the silly magnets or stickers his contemporaries used) stood silent vigil over the bay window, in the corner of which...

 

Was a broom.

 

Rob walked carefully over to it, hesitating to touch the magnificent ash handle, carved when the world was young and the gods needed to sweep out the corners of creation. Then he shook his head, picked it up, and chucked it out the window. How it caught on the filing cabinet, carrying six hundred pounds and seventeen years of paperwork to crash down onto a busy city street, he couldn't have been paid to say.

 

***

One Week and Four Days Ago

 

Rob turned in his dreams, tearing at his starched, perfectly pressed white sheets in a sweaty panic. He cried out, pulling his arms over his face in a defensive measure, then attempted to curl into a fetal ball, and fell out of bed onto his shiny, polished, plastic tile floor.

 

The smell of smoke, sulphur, and, oddly enough, bacon lingered in the dark recesses of shadowy nightmare. He had a vague impression of a large figure with badly twisted legs pounding something with a mallet the size of his mighty formica and fiberglass desk while flames licked ever higher in the background, and shiverred at the remembrance that it had been him.

 

He pushed himself up, then immediately fell over and writhed with the pain of an unexpected charlie horse. A few agonized minutes later, he rose again and went to the bathroom.

 

When he returned to his bedroom, there in the middle of the bed, his sheets twisted around it as if it had always been there, was the miracle broom.

 

Rob spent all of five seconds trying to figure out how it had gotten there, then grabbed it and chucked it out into the hallway.

 

***

Five Days Ago

 

Rob coughed, looking into his bathroom warily. The broom wasn't there... It had haunted him for more than a week now, always showing up on the eve of some terrible event... the loss of his best pair of shoes to a freak pile of dog doo he could have sworn hadn't been there... the ruination of an exquisite faux silk tie that got caught in the shredder at work...

 

It had even ruined his date with Angie from accounting last night, when he'd spied it through the swinging door of the kitchen they'd been tastefully seated next to, and had dove under the table to hide from it. Angie had been quite incensed, especially seeing as she'd been wearing a skirt at the time, and Rob was now on the verge of being fired for sexual harrasment.

 

He crept into the bathroom and stood in front of the sink, quickly downing two aspirin for the headache he could feel coming. Rob was only mildly surprised to see the broom reflected in the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet as he closed it, but he fainted anyway.

 

It's not every day you see a broom taking a shower.

 

***

Ten Minutes Ago

 

Rob Kosten warily entered his once-proud office, fortress of his immense, confidant, solitude. He desperately wanted Angie in accounting to hold his hand and keep him company today, but she was still considering legal action, and he didn't think it would be a good idea to ask her.

 

The broom didn't even make any bones about hiding now. It stood, propped against his might formica and fiberglass desk, staring at him. Taunting him. Threatening him.

 

Rob couldn't take it anymore. Who was he to be reduced to skulking around like some mail-room intern? And all over fear of a common household cleaning aid!

 

Rob threw himself at the broom, grabbing it around the neck and choking the dear life out of it. After a brief six or seven minutes, he realized this was very stupid, and instead whacked it against the side of his desk until it shattered cleanly along the middle.

 

Only then did he realize the company manager was standing outside his office, looking in through the open door with a vague and not alltogether pleased look of polite worry. He opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again, and then put on a slightly false-looking smile. Rob thought it might have been meant to look reassuring.

 

"Kosten, old boy, why don't you take a few weeks leave?"

 

Rob hesitated for a moment, then nodded and hung his head.

 

"Right... just let me get my suitcase, then."

 

Rob turned around to retrieve his suitcase from behind the mighty formica and fiberglass desk, idly glancing around the office as he did so. And there it was, propped in a corner as if, for all the world, it had always been there.

 

Rob tore another small patch of hair out, turned, breathed deeply a few times, and ran screaming from the room, never to return.

 

***

Five Minutes Later

 

"Please, please, please take it off my hands! I'll give you..." Rob fumbled with his wallet. "Eighty dollars!"

 

The old bum sat at the mouth of his alley, and shook his head with a slow grin.

 

"Once it ain't been paid for, sonny jim, it can't help but follow yer around. See, to me the Miracle Stick had a price. A value it could be bought and sold for. To you, it's priceless. Imagine how that makes it feel! I bet it really likes you by now."

 

Rob considered strangling the man. Instead, he settled on simply tearing out a larger patch of hair, screaming, and running off, also never to return.

 

And that was the last anyone ever heard of Rob Kosten and his broom, though not the last Rob ever heard of his broom, though he wished it had been.

Edited March 17, 2007 by Finnius

[The Portrait of Zool]

Awesome story Finnius!

 

So tell me - how do we get you to post more stories??

[Finnius]

Oh Zool, you flatterer.

[Patrick]

Great story Finnius!

Object 5: The hammer
"Look at that wee hammer lads! Ain't it the smallest ye've ever laid ye eyes upon?" Laughter erupted following the words.

"Small man, small weapon!" The merriment was even louder this time.

I don't reply to them. Another long sip of beer. A sign to the barman. Another golden coloured brew arrives. My right hand never leaves the hilt of my hammer and my eyes roam round the room.

"Maybe he's small elsewhere too!" A chorus of laughters follows. My hand itches to act, but it's not time. Not yet.

The group of elves behind me stand up to leave, leaving only the five young dwarves making fun of me. Them and the barman. And Crusher.

We have a peculiar relationship Crusher and I. She was given to me as a toy, when I was barely four years old. No one knew that she was magical at the time. No one knew that she was actually female. I found out about that sixteen years later. She spoke to me for the first time when it was my twentieth birthday. My life changed that night.

Another beer finished. I don't even need to call the innkeep, he's already there with the next. The same old routine every night for three weeks it has been now. Ever since my fiftieth birthday. I give out a deep sigh, and allow the next insult aimed my way to simply drift past. Then something snaps in me. It might be the nine beers in me, or her talking to me again, but I get up.

Two minutes later the dwarves are dead. Blood covers Crusher's sides and the hilt. Some of it is even on my face.

She appears then again, in all her elven beauty. She gives me a gentle kiss on the forehead. Before I can open my mouth to speak, she is gone again, and I'm holding Crusher in my hands again. The blood is gone and the steel is immaculate. She hasn't had enough. I need to kill more. I have things to tell her. I have to see her again.

Only the calling of blood does she answer...

[Mynx]

Object 6: The Comb

The comb was bubblegum pink, with a star shaped handle, and coated in enough glitter to choke a kitten. It had come as an accessory to the Barbie doll I gave her, and as soon as Ashley laid eyes on it, both the doll and the rest of her presents were utterly forgotten.

 

Nevermind that the doll came with a playhouse, or that Gramma and Gramps had spent more money buying the matching remote controlled car than they’d ever spent on my birthday presents, as soon as little Ashley picked up the comb, the five year old refused to play with anything else.

 

It was kind of cute, I suppose, and she did end up playing with the rest of her presents eventually, but jeez that comb never left her sight. I can’t recall the number of times my poor mum had to wash the glitter out of Ashley’s hair, and the entire house began to take on an odd shimmery effect by the time my sis was seven. I swear, that comb never ran out of glitter to shed. It was like it bred it, or something.

 

I remember my high school graduation. Ashley was twelve by then, and the comb was missing some of its prongs, but she still carried it with her. I was giving my valedictorian speech, and Ashley was deliberately trying to distract me by getting the sunlight to catch off the glitter that coated the comb, her hair, her clothes, poor Mum’s jacket…

 

When I was living at college, my mum would send me letters every week or so, mostly about nothing, but the contact was nice. The first summer, I stayed on campus, but when I came back for Christmas, I found that my darling little sister had decided to become a moody Goth. She tried to act all tough, like she was too cool to spend time with her ‘nerdy older brother’, but one night after she’d come home from seeing a movie with her friends, I noticed a very familiar comb hanging off her bag, its glitter imposing on the superficial angst.

 

It’s funny how often the smaller gifts, the ones that seem insignificant, are often the ones that aren’t. Eventually, Ashley stopped carrying the comb with her, got rid of the Goth image, grew up…but that comb kept turning up at the strangest of times. When I got married, Mum told me afterwards that Sharon hadn’t been able to find something old or borrowed, so Ashley had pulled the comb out of her jewellery box and given it to Sarah to put in her clutch purse. I thought her dress looked glittery that night.

 

We kind of fell apart not too long after that. I was working in the city, and Ashley had graduated and started travelling overseas, working as a freelance journalist of all things. She only just made it back in time for Dad’s funeral, and completely missed the birth of my daughter. She sent a gift though, and once I saw it I didn’t have the heart to be annoyed that she wasn’t there in person. She’d given little Sally a teddy bear.

With her comb tucked into its paws.

[The Portrait of Zool]

See, told ya Finn.

 

Disturbing story you got there Patrick. You should call it; "Hammer Time".

 

That is the cutest story Mynx. Excellent!

 

BTW - Dr. Who rocks!