How might it feel to be a broomstick?
Trapped in a dusty closet or constantly swept carelessly around, only for dirt and dust to get caught in your bristles… Well, that’s what Hood River New School’s students worked on over the last couple of weeks.
Over one week, our sixth, seventh, and eighth graders wrote pieces of Flash Fiction in which our prompt was to write from the perspective of an inanimate object.
Flash fiction is a writing style where the story takes place in 100-1,000 words, so it can be fairly fast-paced, but it’s also an amazing opportunity. Whether they were a candle or a frisbee, each character really leaped off the page and took us by surprise.
As a result, we wanted to share what our aspiring writers had done and selected a couple of pieces for your perusal. So, get ready to put yourself into the mind of an inanimate object or place and read about how their life might be different or similar to yours. Below are four of our students’ stories.
— Daisy Jones,
Hood River New School
The Candle Shop
Green Sutton
Cha Ching! Cha Ching! That was all I heard time after time, day after day. As people entered Second Street Candle Shop, a dingy colorful shop, their faces startled as they caught a whiff of the insufferable aroma. Each hand pausing briefly at my shelf, then motioning towards me, only to grab the candle next door. After all, who wants a grass scented candle? The anticipation of people entering through the big blue door with the dull brass knobs was starting to get to me. All I could do was sit there watching the dust float in the streams of light that came through the small octagonal window next to my shelf.
Then the door to the shop opened. A young child walked in with a devilish grin on his face. I shuddered at the sight of it. Each step he took seemed to shake my shelf. He arrived at my shelf, pausing and looking around. Then my body creaked as his fat, sweaty hands knocked me off the shelf. My stomach lurched as I prepared for impact.
I hit the ground with a loud whack. I began to roll along the carpeted floor. I was submerged in darkness as I rolled under the shelf. I realized I was entangled in sticky white strands that seemed to stretch forever. I felt as if my life had ended. My search to find purpose had ended. This was my purpose to be lost. I would spend eternity under there never would I smell fresh air, or feel the warm sun on my waxy coating. The air was heavy and dry.
Then, I heard footsteps approaching. Then the rustling of clothes. All of the sudden a huge hand grabbed me and pulled me out of the dark abyss. Light erupted in my eyes momentarily blinding me. The person carried me to the counter. The next thing I knew I was in a new place. The walls were grass green and the air was cool. I was set on a small bench. Finally I had found a new home and a new purpose. A lady walked up to me and began to straighten my wick. Then she held a flame to my waxy head. I looked up realizing a flame had engulfed my wick. I screamed, muted by my non-existent mouth.
The Old Subway
By Rosie Hart
I looked around, flipping through my security cameras to see what was scurrying around me. Finally, I found the right angle. It was a scruffy, homeless man dumping his sticky trash onto my train tracks. He stayed there for a while, then at some point knelt down and seated himself on my mossy, dirty floor. Starting to weep, he pulled out an old photo. I zoomed in on the picture, my greasy camera was no help, but I managed to make out a small boy — maybe 3 or 4 years old — holding his father’s hand, skipping and dancing through a subway system. The man smiled, his tired, sad wails still echoing down the tunnels.
There was a time when I was young and happy too. This bittersweet memory always seemed to push its way into my head like an invasive plant. Nevertheless, I remember opening my eyes through my screens for the first time. My walls glowed and my rails shined. There was hustle and bustle every which way, and I saw clearly through my now grainy cameras. My subways took people to and from their destinations. I was a key point in day-to-day use. Everyone loved me and used me but only years later: My owners went bankrupt, my trains were all taken to the rail yard, my valuable bits taken out and used up, leaving me to rot.
The man suddenly scrambled to his feet, running away out of the corner of my line of sight. I listened as I heard something screaming and shaking, a steady robotic huffing stirring up silence. The commotion rattled down my tunnels as I listened to whatever it was. I felt a powerful punch in my side, like both a knife’s stab and a hit bruise at the same time. I had never really expected my death to come up on me this quick, but I guess it was only a matter of time. The painful blows shattered my patiently and carefully crafted bricks. Rust chunks that had previously been flaking from my walls now flushed down my tunnels. Patiently waiting for the process to be over, I tried distracting myself with the thoughts of that homeless man. After about a week they finally removed me like I was a parasite. When it was over, I laid on my side, the last thing I saw through my old camera, before it flickered out being a high-class, shiny new wrecking ball, with a sign not too far away that read, ‘Subway reconstruction coming soon!’
The Day It All Changed
By Olivia Sommerset
I remember getting used as often as the rain fell. That was almost nine decades ago. I have been passed down from generation to generation and now life is busy for my current author, April. April is ten and loves vintage stuff, so of course she adores me. April has been my favorite author; yes, there were other authors that I loved but no one like April. April has bought a case just for me. She’s one of a kind, she has school but every so often she writes on me and when my ink is running low she always makes sure to gently place my ink into me and makes sure to not damage my Type Guide. Her warm gentle fingers dance on my cold dusted cover plate.
After school one evening she sat down at the desk that her great grandmother had sat in many years ago. The rain trickled down the window as April placed fresh paper into me and rolled it through my Platen Roller. It all snapped into place and she started to write. I followed her language, written in her native tongue. Her warm sighs of her story. The story takes place on a day that is cold and rainy. The character is bland and cautious, like April. The keys click as she presses each letter carefully. Gentle and soft. Her music in the background is calm and soothing. Her writing is strong and powerful. After so long from not being written on I’m getting my very own story. I enjoy each and every second of my ink being on paper. The feeling of her delicate fingers are so warm and smooth. The day has come — I’m finally being used. But not for long.
April has been writing on me for about a year, but she’s still not finished with her delightful story, The Day It All Changed. She writes and writes but as always I am still there on the dusted old, wooden desk, while April is at school. I think about all the times she has left me, abandoned me. All alone. To be with her friends. Or that one time when she said that I’m super old and barely work. I wonder if she meant that? I was made in 1912, not that long ago. Right?
I’ve sat here long enough to know everything about her room. The black curtains on her windows that are right above me. And her long wooden desk that I’ve been sitting on for years. Her messy bed with all her astrology posters above. And maps of the world were displayed all around her room. And in the corner was her tiny nook where she read. This is where her flip phone is. Where her other desk is. The desk that has her fancy computer. With keys. And no paper. No ink. I guess I am old… These are the thoughts I have. Am I ever going to get a story written on me, a story from me? I’m not getting any newer. And I don’t know when I will stop working. Forever.
One day April came home and didn’t even acknowledge me. She went straight to her tech nook, which is what I call it. The place that will replace me eventually. It’s bound to happen considering that she went straight to her flip phone and called her friends. That day she didn’t even touch me. Maybe I didn’t just want to have a story written on me. I wanted to be the only thing she cared about, the thing she would want to spend every second with. I wanted to be used and cherished. I wanted to be fresh and usable, not old and rusted.
Years passed and it was now the year 2003. One day changed everything. April was 16. And on the day of Aug. 1, 2003. That was the day. The day it all changed. MySpace was made. The site that every teenager was talking about the day I had been replaced. Every single day April would come home and hop on to her computer and hang out on MySpace. She updated her profile, found other ones and left me all behind. Sitting there. My worst fear of being forgotten, not getting a story but just being a stupid old rusty typewriter. No one these days likes typewriters. Not even April. Over time she moved her desk to where I was and I was put on a shelf. A shelf? Not even a good surface but a shelf. Shelves are used for storage and decor. I never thought of myself as a decoration or something to store. I thought I was something of use. But I guessed wrong. I am forgettable. Replaceable. Not permanent. Not interested. Not new and shiny. Just a typewriter. Just a rusted old typewriter.
In 2007 the first iPhone came out. April played with that evil creation for hours. I watched her on her bed just scrolling. Scrolling. And more scrolling. I felt better. I wasn’t the only thing replaceable, but so was MySpace.
But in 2008 she left. She left home, she left me. Shoved me in a box with a bunch of other useless junk. I was slowly forgotten. I kept denying myself that she would come back for me. But I needed to accept the fact. She wasn’t coming back. I wanted my dream to come true. But I thought that was never gonna happen. But I never thought about writing MY story. The story of a typewriter. A forgotten one. I started to write and write and write. I called it The day it all changed. But with a few changes in my life. Being forgotten hurts more than anything. But using every piece of ink I had left I made this story. I fulfilled my dream. I made a story. Thanks for reading my story.
In a Place of Eras Past
By Daisy Jones
Her bare feet are feather light against my cold hardwood floor. Another spin, and I catch her in my arms, releasing her with the grace of a swan. In these hallowed halls — my hallowed halls — she dances.
Somewhere distant, I let the organ play. The notes ebb and flow, a waltz that the girl and I both know by heart. Each step, a memory of bygone times. The sound is enough to fill the air and give it life despite the breathlessness of such an impressive room. Beams of sunlight catch on motes of dust, bathing parts of my floor in warmth while others grow accustomed to the cold.
This place was great once. I was great. Now, all that remains is that of the girl and this ruinous space.
Back before the grand kingdom fell and the new age began, I was a place where monarchs gathered to relieve their minds of mortal strife. They drank clear crimson liquid until their brains turned to mush and danced like dawn would never arrive, twirling and leaping until their feet gave way. Even then, they sought endless pleasure in the castle’s vast corridors, for the night was still young.
My hall was once aglow with light. It bounced off of my gold trimmings and hung from my chandelier, burning bright even when winds raged outside the palace walls, merciless towards the kingdom’s many citizens.
I was an enchanting room, delicate wallpaper and an endless display of riches. My party-goers left not only with flushed faces and broad smiles, but with a taste of me that would never fade from the tongue.
Too many times I catch myself straining for the sound of drunken laughter, of foolish nobles ready to die young. Their footsteps stain this room, red and blue and gray. Each is a whisper of what used to be.
Now they are gone, lost to the wind and sea. The kingdom is but a scattered remnant of its former greatness. Still, I remain among the rubble. My windows continue to cast light from heaven upon the great floor, but when night reaches its cruel fingers over the horizon, my hall is merely flooded with darkness. I am no different from any other room in this castle. Not anymore.
At least the girl stays. She dances with me and I sigh, wishing that this could be enough. Wishing that my greedy self did not still long for more. Yet my anger at the mortals astounds me with its ferocity.
They used me. What would their parties have been without my playing host? Their guests would have rotted to dirt with boredom had I not been there to guide their feet through each and every waltz. My greatness was nothing more than a tale for them to share with jealous others. I was a game to them, a short lived reprieve from mortality.
As the girl, my last follower, leaps into the air once more, I think too late and fail to catch her. The wind hammers at my shutters, breaking through and tossing her hair in waves of liquid gold as she falls to the hardwood floor.
There she stays, and try as I might, I can do nothing to help her. I have no arms to extend courteously, no eyes which might charm her. What energy remained in her tired body has faded away. Sleep will soon pull her under.
A scattering of leaves lands throughout the room, withered to husks by the changing season. Her nightgown pools like a white wave of sorrow, and her eyes close.
It seems that I am not the only one too tired to continue dancing.
How might it feel to be a broomstick?
Trapped in a dusty closet or constantly swept carelessly around, only for dirt and dust to get caught in your bristles… Well, that’s what Hood River New School’s students worked on over the last couple of weeks.
Over one week, our sixth, seventh, and eighth graders wrote pieces of Flash Fiction in which our prompt was to write from the perspective of an inanimate object.
Flash fiction is a writing style where the story takes place in 100-1,000 words, so it can be fairly fast-paced, but it’s also an amazing opportunity. Whether they were a candle or a frisbee, each character really leaped off the page and took us by surprise.
As a result, we wanted to share what our aspiring writers had done and selected a couple of pieces for your perusal. So, get ready to put yourself into the mind of an inanimate object or place and read about how their life might be different or similar to yours. Below are four of our students’ stories.
— Daisy Jones,
Hood River New School
The Candle Shop
Green Sutton
Cha Ching! Cha Ching! That was all I heard time after time, day after day. As people entered Second Street Candle Shop, a dingy colorful shop, their faces startled as they caught a whiff of the insufferable aroma. Each hand pausing briefly at my shelf, then motioning towards me, only to grab the candle next door. After all, who wants a grass scented candle? The anticipation of people entering through the big blue door with the dull brass knobs was starting to get to me. All I could do was sit there watching the dust float in the streams of light that came through the small octagonal window next to my shelf.
Then the door to the shop opened. A young child walked in with a devilish grin on his face. I shuddered at the sight of it. Each step he took seemed to shake my shelf. He arrived at my shelf, pausing and looking around. Then my body creaked as his fat, sweaty hands knocked me off the shelf. My stomach lurched as I prepared for impact.
I hit the ground with a loud whack. I began to roll along the carpeted floor. I was submerged in darkness as I rolled under the shelf. I realized I was entangled in sticky white strands that seemed to stretch forever. I felt as if my life had ended. My search to find purpose had ended. This was my purpose to be lost. I would spend eternity under there never would I smell fresh air, or feel the warm sun on my waxy coating. The air was heavy and dry.
Then, I heard footsteps approaching. Then the rustling of clothes. All of the sudden a huge hand grabbed me and pulled me out of the dark abyss. Light erupted in my eyes momentarily blinding me. The person carried me to the counter. The next thing I knew I was in a new place. The walls were grass green and the air was cool. I was set on a small bench. Finally I had found a new home and a new purpose. A lady walked up to me and began to straighten my wick. Then she held a flame to my waxy head. I looked up realizing a flame had engulfed my wick. I screamed, muted by my non-existent mouth.
The Old Subway
By Rosie Hart
I looked around, flipping through my security cameras to see what was scurrying around me. Finally, I found the right angle. It was a scruffy, homeless man dumping his sticky trash onto my train tracks. He stayed there for a while, then at some point knelt down and seated himself on my mossy, dirty floor. Starting to weep, he pulled out an old photo. I zoomed in on the picture, my greasy camera was no help, but I managed to make out a small boy — maybe 3 or 4 years old — holding his father’s hand, skipping and dancing through a subway system. The man smiled, his tired, sad wails still echoing down the tunnels.
There was a time when I was young and happy too. This bittersweet memory always seemed to push its way into my head like an invasive plant. Nevertheless, I remember opening my eyes through my screens for the first time. My walls glowed and my rails shined. There was hustle and bustle every which way, and I saw clearly through my now grainy cameras. My subways took people to and from their destinations. I was a key point in day-to-day use. Everyone loved me and used me but only years later: My owners went bankrupt, my trains were all taken to the rail yard, my valuable bits taken out and used up, leaving me to rot.
The man suddenly scrambled to his feet, running away out of the corner of my line of sight. I listened as I heard something screaming and shaking, a steady robotic huffing stirring up silence. The commotion rattled down my tunnels as I listened to whatever it was. I felt a powerful punch in my side, like both a knife’s stab and a hit bruise at the same time. I had never really expected my death to come up on me this quick, but I guess it was only a matter of time. The painful blows shattered my patiently and carefully crafted bricks. Rust chunks that had previously been flaking from my walls now flushed down my tunnels. Patiently waiting for the process to be over, I tried distracting myself with the thoughts of that homeless man. After about a week they finally removed me like I was a parasite. When it was over, I laid on my side, the last thing I saw through my old camera, before it flickered out being a high-class, shiny new wrecking ball, with a sign not too far away that read, ‘Subway reconstruction coming soon!’
The Day It All Changed
By Olivia Sommerset
I remember getting used as often as the rain fell. That was almost nine decades ago. I have been passed down from generation to generation and now life is busy for my current author, April. April is ten and loves vintage stuff, so of course she adores me. April has been my favorite author; yes, there were other authors that I loved but no one like April. April has bought a case just for me. She’s one of a kind, she has school but every so often she writes on me and when my ink is running low she always makes sure to gently place my ink into me and makes sure to not damage my Type Guide. Her warm gentle fingers dance on my cold dusted cover plate.
After school one evening she sat down at the desk that her great grandmother had sat in many years ago. The rain trickled down the window as April placed fresh paper into me and rolled it through my Platen Roller. It all snapped into place and she started to write. I followed her language, written in her native tongue. Her warm sighs of her story. The story takes place on a day that is cold and rainy. The character is bland and cautious, like April. The keys click as she presses each letter carefully. Gentle and soft. Her music in the background is calm and soothing. Her writing is strong and powerful. After so long from not being written on I’m getting my very own story. I enjoy each and every second of my ink being on paper. The feeling of her delicate fingers are so warm and smooth. The day has come — I’m finally being used. But not for long.
April has been writing on me for about a year, but she’s still not finished with her delightful story, The Day It All Changed. She writes and writes but as always I am still there on the dusted old, wooden desk, while April is at school. I think about all the times she has left me, abandoned me. All alone. To be with her friends. Or that one time when she said that I’m super old and barely work. I wonder if she meant that? I was made in 1912, not that long ago. Right?
I’ve sat here long enough to know everything about her room. The black curtains on her windows that are right above me. And her long wooden desk that I’ve been sitting on for years. Her messy bed with all her astrology posters above. And maps of the world were displayed all around her room. And in the corner was her tiny nook where she read. This is where her flip phone is. Where her other desk is. The desk that has her fancy computer. With keys. And no paper. No ink. I guess I am old… These are the thoughts I have. Am I ever going to get a story written on me, a story from me? I’m not getting any newer. And I don’t know when I will stop working. Forever.
One day April came home and didn’t even acknowledge me. She went straight to her tech nook, which is what I call it. The place that will replace me eventually. It’s bound to happen considering that she went straight to her flip phone and called her friends. That day she didn’t even touch me. Maybe I didn’t just want to have a story written on me. I wanted to be the only thing she cared about, the thing she would want to spend every second with. I wanted to be used and cherished. I wanted to be fresh and usable, not old and rusted.
Years passed and it was now the year 2003. One day changed everything. April was 16. And on the day of Aug. 1, 2003. That was the day. The day it all changed. MySpace was made. The site that every teenager was talking about the day I had been replaced. Every single day April would come home and hop on to her computer and hang out on MySpace. She updated her profile, found other ones and left me all behind. Sitting there. My worst fear of being forgotten, not getting a story but just being a stupid old rusty typewriter. No one these days likes typewriters. Not even April. Over time she moved her desk to where I was and I was put on a shelf. A shelf? Not even a good surface but a shelf. Shelves are used for storage and decor. I never thought of myself as a decoration or something to store. I thought I was something of use. But I guessed wrong. I am forgettable. Replaceable. Not permanent. Not interested. Not new and shiny. Just a typewriter. Just a rusted old typewriter.
In 2007 the first iPhone came out. April played with that evil creation for hours. I watched her on her bed just scrolling. Scrolling. And more scrolling. I felt better. I wasn’t the only thing replaceable, but so was MySpace.
But in 2008 she left. She left home, she left me. Shoved me in a box with a bunch of other useless junk. I was slowly forgotten. I kept denying myself that she would come back for me. But I needed to accept the fact. She wasn’t coming back. I wanted my dream to come true. But I thought that was never gonna happen. But I never thought about writing MY story. The story of a typewriter. A forgotten one. I started to write and write and write. I called it The day it all changed. But with a few changes in my life. Being forgotten hurts more than anything. But using every piece of ink I had left I made this story. I fulfilled my dream. I made a story. Thanks for reading my story.
In a Place of Eras Past
By Daisy Jones
Her bare feet are feather light against my cold hardwood floor. Another spin, and I catch her in my arms, releasing her with the grace of a swan. In these hallowed halls — my hallowed halls — she dances.
Somewhere distant, I let the organ play. The notes ebb and flow, a waltz that the girl and I both know by heart. Each step, a memory of bygone times. The sound is enough to fill the air and give it life despite the breathlessness of such an impressive room. Beams of sunlight catch on motes of dust, bathing parts of my floor in warmth while others grow accustomed to the cold.
This place was great once. I was great. Now, all that remains is that of the girl and this ruinous space.
Back before the grand kingdom fell and the new age began, I was a place where monarchs gathered to relieve their minds of mortal strife. They drank clear crimson liquid until their brains turned to mush and danced like dawn would never arrive, twirling and leaping until their feet gave way. Even then, they sought endless pleasure in the castle’s vast corridors, for the night was still young.
My hall was once aglow with light. It bounced off of my gold trimmings and hung from my chandelier, burning bright even when winds raged outside the palace walls, merciless towards the kingdom’s many citizens.
I was an enchanting room, delicate wallpaper and an endless display of riches. My party-goers left not only with flushed faces and broad smiles, but with a taste of me that would never fade from the tongue.
Too many times I catch myself straining for the sound of drunken laughter, of foolish nobles ready to die young. Their footsteps stain this room, red and blue and gray. Each is a whisper of what used to be.
Now they are gone, lost to the wind and sea. The kingdom is but a scattered remnant of its former greatness. Still, I remain among the rubble. My windows continue to cast light from heaven upon the great floor, but when night reaches its cruel fingers over the horizon, my hall is merely flooded with darkness. I am no different from any other room in this castle. Not anymore.
At least the girl stays. She dances with me and I sigh, wishing that this could be enough. Wishing that my greedy self did not still long for more. Yet my anger at the mortals astounds me with its ferocity.
They used me. What would their parties have been without my playing host? Their guests would have rotted to dirt with boredom had I not been there to guide their feet through each and every waltz. My greatness was nothing more than a tale for them to share with jealous others. I was a game to them, a short lived reprieve from mortality.
As the girl, my last follower, leaps into the air once more, I think too late and fail to catch her. The wind hammers at my shutters, breaking through and tossing her hair in waves of liquid gold as she falls to the hardwood floor.
There she stays, and try as I might, I can do nothing to help her. I have no arms to extend courteously, no eyes which might charm her. What energy remained in her tired body has faded away. Sleep will soon pull her under.
A scattering of leaves lands throughout the room, withered to husks by the changing season. Her nightgown pools like a white wave of sorrow, and her eyes close.
It seems that I am not the only one too tired to continue dancing.
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