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The Life of an Inanimate Object

posted Feb 2, 2017, 4:32 AM by Jeffrey Wolf

By: Megan Cichon, Entertainment Editor

Posted February 2nd, 2017


Part I: Beginnings

Humans like you won’t remember being in your mother’s womb. You don’t remember how it felt as you grew arms and legs, and you likely don’t remember being born either. You don’t remember coming into this world and screaming because for the first time ever, there’s oxygen in your lungs, and you’re blinded by the scathing lights in the delivery room. You might not remember. But I certainly do.

I remember my mother--she was a fourteen year old cedar tree, more mature and more beautiful than any of the other trees in the surrounding forest. When loggers cut her down, she was taken to a factory, where she was cut up into small blocks, nineteen centimeters long. Those nineteen centimeter blocks would be her legacy--her children. We were cut up again, into skinnier slats, and then we had grooves etched into us. Those grooves were filled with glue and a graphite rod was placed inside. Another slat was placed on top, and our skeletons had officially finished developing.

I wasn’t even conscious when they painted me. But I do remember that I was painted seven times over, and each time I felt more complete than the last. When the painting was finished, a rubbery substance was placed on my head. I felt a stamp press into my topmost layers of paint and recede. I was placed in a tight container and then everything was silent.

I slowly opened my eyes. I could faintly see long yellow objects surrounding me. They were all murmuring amongst one another. I looked down at myself and discovered that I was, quite simply, gorgeous.

My yellow body was so smooth and shiny. My gray point was sharper than the point of anyone else surrounding me. I glanced up, and saw a plump, bright pink, rubber mass on top of my head. I giggled with joy, which drew the attention of those around me.

“Hello!” One of them squealed.

“Nice eraser!” Another chimed.

“I like your stamp!” Another chirped, “They messed mine up! See?!”

They turned around so I could see green ink smeared all over their wonderful paint.

“What’s your name?” One inquired.

My name? I’d essentially just come to life. I’d been too busy noticing how perfect I am to come up with a name perfect enough to be called for the rest of my life. All of them were staring at me, wide eyed with anticipation.

“I haven’t had much time to think about it,” I admitted, my mind moving a trillion miles a minute, “After all, I just woke up. I don’t want to rush--”

“We all have great suggestions!” One piped up, “For example--”

They cleared their throat.

“--Pamela, Persephone, Patricia, Peyton, Penelope, Paule, Peggy, Prudence, Pipa, Pearl, Paris, Piper--”

“I like that,” I muttered thoughtfully.

“Paris? Me too.”

“No, not that one,” I explained, “Piper.”

“Is that the name you want?”

I thought, and then nodded affirmatively.

“Yeah...Piper...Piper the Pencil.”


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