February 2008

The subject matter of your next story must be inanimate. Choose a single item that cannot function by itself, and create. It can be written in any form (first person, third person, etc.) as long as the item itself requires outside influence to operate, and is the main focus of the story.



I am not putting a length requirement, but lets not cheat ourselves.

Vice

Sorry, I have thought about and forgotten this story a hundred times since I posted the premise. I will try harder next time!

I feel the cool air all around me as I am being plucked from the comfort of my friends. The gentle pressure of his fingers makes me feel safe as if I were in the hands of someone who loved me. Slowly he moves me to his mouth as if to kiss me. I find myself resting between his lips curious about this feeling. Then suddenly I feel the pain, the hot searing pain and then it is gone. The only remnant a slow burning feeling. Then I can feel as he draws the air into me. The warmth passes through me from end to end. I begin to feel all of my cares fading away. A sense of euphoria lifts me to another place. It seems to last forever.

Suddenly all of that wonderful pleasure stops. I am slammed onto a hard surface. The twisting and crushing is unbearable. I don't know how long I can withstand this. The warmth is fading. I need that warmth. I will surely die without it! But as hard as I fight, the warmth still fades. I don't understand. As much as he loved me, is he done with me already? The fire is gone now. This is what it feels like to die.

A Day in the Life

At 6a.m., the light in the room flickers on without warning. She walks in and takes off her nightgown and panties and steps into the shower. The room steams up with the heat of the water. After several long minutes, she steps out again and begins to dry herself. In only her towel, she walks to the mirror and runs her fingers through her wet hair. Then she reaches for me. She slathers me with a sweet tasting cream and draws me near. Her lips part. She begins the familiar motions, up, down, side to side. Then she is done. She rinses me with warm water and walks away.

I spend the day alone in the dimness of this room until well after night falls. She enters the room again and reaches for me...

Lucy

"Not again. Not him anway, " Lucy said.

"What's your problem?" asked Jean.

"Cold hands, fumbling, groping, so uneducated."

"You know, he's just begginingg. He'll get better with age, we all do."

"Yes, which is exactly why you can't possibly pair the two of us together. He is green, I am expirenced. He is dumb, I am smart. He is is clumbsy, I am perfect. I don't want that fumbling fool groping me."

Bobby picked up Lucy and ran the pick harshly across her strings. The sound Lucy emmitted was not to her liking. She gave a little extra vibration on E.

Bobby tried for C. His fingers where somewhere in the vacinity of F.

"Why do I have to use this dumb old guitar. I think its strings are too warn, " Bobby moaned.

Bobby's father entered the room.

"What are you doing son?" asked Charles.

"Oh, just messing around. I just can't seem to get C. It just sounds like dirt. Do you think we should re-string it?"

"Son, those strings are fine," Charles giggled under his breath. "It's not the strings. It just takes time. O'l Lucy here, she old. She belonged to Pop. She's...well, she's probably close to sixty years old now. He used to play her on the front porch. This is the guitar I learned to play."

Charles took Lucy in his hands and put together 10 of some of the finest chords immaginable. Lucy let out a sigh of relief and joy. He walked through several more progressions and then suddenly grabbed the neck and looked over at Bobby.

Bobby was grinning. "I wish I could do that. You make it look so easy, and you're right. The sound was awesome."

"It just takes time, son."

"I know, but there are these great new songs out, but when I look at the tabs they are just crazy."

"Start with something easier, son. Take it slow and keep at it. O'l Lucy here, well, if you treat her right she'll sound perfect. There's a lot of love in this old guitar. Pop used to sit on the front porch for hours singing and strumming. In fact, if you flip her over here, yeah, there it is, look deep in there. See it?"

"Bobby 'Pop' Martin - 1947. Is that my Pop?"

"Yep. Pop made this guitar himself. It took him most of one year. But you see son, you can't hardly buy guitars like this one. The Mother of Pearl inlaid here was from shells he collected in World War II, in the Pacific. The face is Rosewood, which is extremely rare now. The strings, well they are steel, but I bet they are at least thirty years old. Bobby, they just don't make them like this anymore."

Lucy seemed to glow a little brighter.

"Wow, I wonder how much its worth?"

"Son, promise me one thing: never get rid of Lucy here. She's a very important part of this family, our haritage. She must always stay with us. Lucy here holds some very important secrets."

"Secrets? What are you talking about? Family secrets?"

"Some day, Bobby. Some day."


Lucy could feel the weight of what she was hearing, deep in her belly.