The prompt

I feel so dirty. I don’t remember the last time I was washed. I’m probably the thing she uses more than any other possession, but I never get to be clean. I don’t ever feel useful, only used, like some castaway from society. Like that homeless man that I see on the corner on those days she doesn’t cover me, smother me with he who is so beautiful. If you ever used him, and not me, if you ever washed me, he wouldn’t be so much prettier than me! We could both be beautiful! But no, I am to be covered like an unwanted stain, only he is to be presented to the world.

He has told me he is jealous. That he is unfulfilled. That every night, she casts him away in favor of me. Just once, I would like to switch positions with him. I would like to be pretty. Let him be useful. But no, it is too late for me. I am too flat, too worn. One of these days someone will replace me. I doubt it will be him, he will go on living as he is, that vapid life I so crave. I could have been like him. I could have been pretty. But that is not my lot in life. And so I will continue this long, slow march to my inevitable death. She will forget the tears, the screams, the kisses, the punches she left on me. I have spent years witnessing the full extent of human emotion. I know her intimately. But I will be refuse before much longer, cast aside when I can no longer fulfill my purpose. I can’t wait for that day to come. I’m just so tired.

There you go again. Out the front door. Not even a short glance to look at me. It’s 20 degrees outside today, but you would rather brave the cold instead of use me.

Am I not as good as the other guy?

Is it because I don’t cost as much?

Is it because you like spending money so much?

I may not be the best in the market, but I can still do my job. You have everything you need to use me, but you’d rather waste your gas, and money for something else. I promise if you give me more time, I will make what you want just as good. I may not be the fastest at my job, or the most thorough, but I promise – I’ll do better. I sit all alone in this cold, dark kitchen. Next to everyone else that gets used on a daily basis. If you didn’t want me, why’d you get me? Why’d you put me next to him, the guy you use so often, the guy you refer to as “the microwave?” The things you put in him won’t expire as fast as the things you use for me. You give me hope when you open up that cold box next to me, but it’s always food that you take out of there, or some orange liquid called “Simply Orange.” You push me out of the way when you need more space on this cold surface. I sit next to those things in the grinders that you call “salt” and “pepper,” my name is better than that.

Suddenly you’re back… with the competitions product. Again, you don’t glance back to look at me, you just head straight past the door. You come back about an hour later, but instead of using me, you throw out the remnants of the competition. It’s half filled with frozen water cubes, how can that be good? The leftovers are still on the rim of the cup, so maybe you didn’t like it. Maybe there is hope for me after all. I guess we’ll try tomorrow, hopefully the milk isn’t expired by then.

For this assignment, I had to write a monologue of a household tool. I’m not sure if you were able to guess it by the end, because it said to be vague. I ended up choosing to do my milk frother. I didn’t want to choose a generic household tool, because I felt like it would’ve been too easy. I also didn’t want to mention anything about coffee, because that would’ve been too easy.

Long story short, I never use my milk frother (or even make coffee at home), and I always end up going to Starbucks to get coffee. I always buy milk in hopes that I’ll have the energy to actually frother milk, and make my own coffee at home. That never happens. I tried to describe my milk frother as something that was completely clueless in the world, but he’s clueless because he never gets used. He simply a jealous, cheap milk frother that has the potential to make what Starbucks makes, I’m just too lazy to try (but not too lazy to drive to get coffee… I know, I make no sense).

I think though that the way I approached this assignment connects well with “The Joy of Painting,” because the joy of this assignment was you had no idea what I was talking about. Yet, I know for me, I would have kept reading to finally figure out what in the world I was talking about. The joy with creativity, is you can make it about anything or make it about nothing. The joy is within the interest, and the process. I found joy while writing in my milk frothers perspective, but I found just as much joy when I read it.

For one of my Writing Bank Assignments I chose a four and a half star assignment entitled, “Monologue Of A Household Tool.” At first I thought it would be a breeze, but quickly realized its harder to bring a household item to life.

I wanted to keep it lighthearted and have the object pertain to our theme. I finally found a good fit with the object I choose. Hint: It’s identifiably ’80s!

I really wanted to incapsulate the popularity of the item, while not making it 100% blatantly obvious….which I may have done despite my best efforts. I also wanted to capture the differences between generations and how people my age might not be as quick to identify with objects of the 80’s.

I hope I did the assignment and object justice, enjoy!

Monologe:

Back in the good ‘ole days people really knew how to push my buttons! But hey at least I was popular. While I was made for everyone, I resonated mainly with the younger crowd. I went everywhere with people – the store, their morning commute, around the house, during their workouts. That was my thing….my person and I….we were inseparable. Connected at the hip one might say!

I learned a lot back then, heard a lot too. Some of my favorite individuals/groups were Bon Jovi, AC/DC, Wham!, Simple Minds, Tina Turner, U2, Journey, Toto, and so many more. I was the life of one’s personal party. I was music to their ears! I motivated people to get up and get movin’ and groovin’! I could bring the hard hitting news or pump up the jams. What a time to be alive.

Unfortunately, today in my old age I’m not as well received. I heard my friend the fanny pack is making a come back…. I happy for him. Today kids don’t know how I work, which sometimes makes me sad. But at least I know my successors allow my legacy to live on!

#ds106

I was inspired to try the assignment, Monologue Of A Household Tool from reading Blue Butterball’s post, What 80s Household Tool Am I? It made me think about all of the tools from the past that aren’t around anymore because they’ve been replaced by the latest and greatest thing. Technology is always replacing itself. It can be a little sad to think of these tools as personified beings. If ancient tools could talk, I’m sure that they would be telling us about how lonely and forgotten they are.

The details for this assignment were to “write a short inner monologue or narrative from the perspective of a household tool. It can be a blender, a circular saw, chair…anything you use around the house. Try to keep it vague so your reader has to think about what the tool is. For bonus points, throw in an image or a GIF of that tool’s perspective.” In thinking about our theme, I picked a certain tool that was used in the 80’s but is not used today, as it has been replaced with newer versions. I’m sure you can guess what tool it is.

Seeing the world through a nostalgia-colored lens,

I capture a moment. Christmas lights glitter on a pine tree and children are tearing at paper. I capture another. A father is playing outside with his daughters. Another. A guinea pig sits on a toy piano. Another. Sisters sit cross-legged on a brown carpeted floor with coloring books and crayons. The moment is over in a flash. I can capture another moment, but that too will fade away. I keep these brief moments stored within me. How will they look when viewed with future eyes? Did I capture a smile? A squint? A sneeze? I hope I did a good job. I cannot delete these moments from memory; I can only hold onto them for safekeeping. They must be kept dark like a secret. The memories will take a little time to develop, but be patient. You will get to hold these memories in your calloused hands and look at them with fondness before storing them away for safekeeping once more. But that is later. Today, I will capture these visual stories while revealing nothing.
click, flash
click, flash
click, flash
The roll is done.

For this writing assignment, I chose Monologue Of A Household Tool where I have to write a monologue from the perspective of a household tool. I am using a household tool from the 80s to go along with the 80s theme. Here is my monologue, so try and guess what 80s household tool am I.

I was used by different kinds of people including writers and business people. I was never common in offices until the mid-1980s. My main purpose was to print individual letters on pieces of paper. I don’t get used that much today because there have been many advancements in technology that have replaced me. However, I still might be used in some underdeveloped countries today. I can be mechanical or electrical. I have many moving parts and materials that are required to keep me going. My name is also the name of a font. I make very sound clicking sounds when I am used. Because of my nature, if you started using me and made a mistake, you would have to start all over. Back in the 1980s, my price would range from $60 to $100, but today my price ranges anywhere from $75 to several hundred dollars. As one last hint, below is a picture of something that I might produce.

Monologue Of A Household Tool

Have you ever wondered what your tools around the house are thinking from day to day? Write a short inner monologue or narrative from the perspective of a household tool. It can be a blender, a circular saw, chair…anything you use around the house. Try to keep it vague so your reader has to think about what the tool is. For bonus points, throw in an image or a GIF of that tool’s perspective.

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Another brother has ascended.

This time, I was right there. Huddled close to my siblings, we felt the tremors of oncoming deliverance–steps like heartbeats, pounding in the chests of madmen. We clattered and rattled, with no arms to steady us, and no legs to brace ourselves with. All we had was each other to fall against, to tap, to make short tunes–pleas of mercy, forgiveness, euphoria, and acceptance. I was right there when it happened this time.

It could have been me. I could smell the scent of cooked meat from its pallid hide, as it appeared over the open roof of our unfortunate abode. The Claw. The savior. The tormentor. From the beginning of our lives, it had come to pluck us from each other–to take us somewhere to which none returned. There used to be more of us. Hundreds of my fellow friends, siblings, prisoners. Now there were only ten. Ten nameless soldiers huddling in the trench waiting for the war to be over–praying it comes peacefully.

The Claw bided its time on that particular night, when it could have been me. It seemed to languish in its victory, in its complex of Godhood–choosing who was to live or die by its protruded appendages. The five phalanges, trembling with brimming, insidious intent, came to a sudden stop above us all. Then, in a movement agonizingly slow, the Claw began its descent downward.

I thought I would finally see it–the paradise we survivors had believed in. I thought then it had to be me, as the shadow casted over my long, sharp profile, soon to be snuffed out. But, it wasn’t. The brother next to me, identical in make, in frame–he rose up from our huddled mass and ascended in the grasp of the Claw–its tentacled grip clutched around even his sharpest points.

The tremors began again, as they always did. Then, soon enough, they faded, and we were never to see our brother again. The same would be the case for the next brother, and the next brother. Surely it would be the same for me, eventually, when it would be my turn to rise. Ten of us remain in this cardboard prison, clattering and leaning on one another for support, the unfortunate twins of plasticity.

I have nightmares in which I am the only one left in the void. All of my siblings, taken into the ever-waiting abyss by the Claw. When night takes this world, and the silent hours come, I find myself unable to rest. The more time that passes, the more I am certain this will be my reality.

There is something to be said about the one who doesn’t fear death. But what can be said about the one fearing life?

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BEHIND THE SCENES

I chose this particular assignment from the assignment bank because it looked really fun! It was a high-star challenge that carried with it character, and a chance to write something very creative. When I was younger, I used to do this all the time! I had a lot of fun thinking about the lives of every day objects, like the plug in the bathtub, or the broom in the kitchen. This assignment was almost a way for me to return back to that old state of mind, and to bring a new, experienced twist to it!

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MAKING OF THE ASSIGNMENT

— Brainstormed on what tool to use, settled on the plastic knives sitting on my shelf in the box they were bought in.

— Wrote down what I thought up, writing directly into the textbox of WordPress for this assignment.

— Found a picture of target brand Plastic Silverware to put with the text.

That’s really all there was to it! It was a fun, easy assignment that I wouldn’t have qualms with doing again. Thank you for the opportunity!

For one of my Writing Assignments this week, I decided to tackle the “Monologue of a Household Tool”. I’m not much of a writer, but I did act in high school, so I thought this might be suited to my strengths.

As I brainstormed what appliance to go with, I kept coming back to my Keurig. It has the most character of any of our appliances, and I know it the best. I’ve had it for the longest. I figured I’d have fun putting myself in it’s shoes.

My monologue is housed in its own blog post, but it reads as follows.

I hum to life groggily. It’s making me nauseous, being constantly unplugged and plugged back in. You’d think I’d have earned my own outlet by now. The microwave gets its own outlet, and I’m way more important than that overly chipper toaster. That thing is so annoying, always springing to life. How does it have that much energy?

Oh thank god, water. I’m so dehydrated, and all this heat I produce doesn’t help. Wait, only one cup’s worth?? Ugh what  waste.  Also, would it kill you to clear the trash out of me right after you use me, instead of waiting until you need me again? Do you think it’s comfortable, having it stuck in here all soggy?

Oh sure, walk away. I’ll just be here, doing all your work for you. I hope the time you save putting on your socks while you wait for me is worth it.

Here you go. You’re welcome. Wait, no, don’t do what I think you’re doing. Do not unplug me again I will NEVER hear the end of it from the toaster. NOOOOO…

I think a lot of my frustrations with my roommates manifested in this monologue, honestly. I projected a grumpy attitude onto my Keurig (much like I myself am in the morning when I use it), and from there, it needed something to be grumpy about. Naturally, that something was the fact that there aren’t enough outlets in the kitchen, so we have to unplug it when we use the toaster. This was not my decision. I’m not a huge fan of it. Apparently, neither is my Keurig. Somehow, the person the Keurig is talking to became my roommate, though it was originally intended to be me. I wanted a dramatic ending, and I don’t eat breakfast, so there had to be someone there to make a bagel.

I enjoyed this assignment. I usually have a lot of anxiety about creative writing, but becoming the character rather than describing them really helped.