The Life of an Inanimate Object: Part V: My First Words
Post date: Mar 3, 2017 2:43:55 PM
By: Megan Cichon, Entertainment Editor
Posted March 3rd, 2017
Part V: My First Words
“Guys!” I called out, “Are you seeing all this writing?!”
“PIPER! LOOK OUT!” One of them screamed.
I felt something wrap around my midsection and lift me into the air. I shouted as I rose high into the air, the desk and pencils on it looking smaller and smaller. I now however, could read some of the writing on the papers.
“The shade my cheeks turn when she compliments me. The color of her dress she wore on our first date. The color of her lipstick on my cheek. The tint of the sky as we watched the sunset. The color of the roses I gave her on Valentine’s Day. The pigment of my blood as I fought for her. The color I saw when I caught her kissing him, and not me.”
I don’t know who hurt him, but he’d turned it into something quite lovely. He tucked me behind his ear, and I saw his room in full. His bed was sloppily made, and there were papers scattered all over it. An entire section of wall next to his bed was full of Post-it notes, filled with scribbles and random drawings. Whoever this kid was, he had an active imagination, and he didn’t allow a single idea to escape him without being recorded.
“Where...oh, here,” the boy muttered, picking up a tattered notebook.
He opened it and flipped to a page half filled with his neat handwriting.
“Where was I...?”
I peered onto the page. The writing in here was the same caliber of the writing on the other paper on the desk.
“Ah, yes,” he said to himself, “The first chapter.”
Chapter? I thought, Chapter? As in chapter of a book--
He reached up and plucked me from behind his ear. The air rushed past me, and he set my graphite point on the paper. And suddenly I was moving. The sensation was relaxing; it was like getting a massage. But what was even more amazing was the words. Each letter was so precisely drawn on the page, and each word was crafted easily within the sentence.
“I burst through the doors, letting them slam into the walls--”
Suddenly I stopped moving.
“That makes no sense,” the boy muttered.
I flipped over quickly, as if I was riding a rollercoaster. My bright pink eraser top was scrubbed all over the paper. When I was flipped back over, I discovered that half of the sentence had disappeared. But what replaced it was even better:
“I burst through the doors, letting my anger pour out from me and into the room I’d just entered. They wouldn’t make this mistake again.”
The boy and I went on writing for hours. The sun had set by the time we’d finished the first chapter. When he finally set me down, my graphite tip was no longer sharp, but I didn’t care. I had helped create something beautiful.