The Cup Watches

The cup stands on the table to the left of the computer, trembling slightly from vibrations in the floor. The desk is unsteady, as if standing on three legs, ungainly, ugly. More pleasing to the eyes, the computer breaths softly in its sleep, the soft light gently pulsing like a heartbeat. Sleek, metallic, a new laptop with hardly a mark on it. Either it's very new, or the owner takes special care to keep it clean and free of scratches. On the ceiling the harsh lights, the ones left, reflect against the screen, making a type of glaring screen saver as the computer also shakes. People walk down the halls, past the room with the desk and the computer and the cup. Water in the cup rides back and forth, up and down, shaking around the pictures painted on the cup. Large snowman eyes stare straight out at the computer, carrot nose pointing to the ragged chair. The sides of the cup are worn, the pictures pale, there's a chip around the back. Echoes sound through the old walls of the building, causing the water to slosh again. Is the computer the only new thing around? Well if it is, it doesn't know what's happening. It doesn't understand the tremors, the neglect, the stares of the object to its right. The cup seems to be smiling at the computer's innocence, and seems to be saying, "I'll be watching you."

The broom--

I got a broom for my birthday. Everyone knows what happens when you get a broom: you either a) ask your dad ‘what the heck is this for?’ b) proceed to sweep his collection of seashells off the bookshelf, c) use it as kindling, or d) mount the thing and think UP. The forth option is really the most fun sounding, so that’s what I tried first.
You’ll never believe what happened next!
No really.
I didn’t fly.
I didn’t end up going with any of the first 3 options.
I told you that you’d never believe it. Process of elimination, right? It’s how quizzes work, but unfortunately not how life works. Life throws you curveballs, and straight-balls, and why am I talking basketball?
So here’s what happened. I mounted the broom, thought UP with all my might, glanced at my dad to see if he was trying to attach balloons to the tail, and when I looked back at the broom it had EYES... written on the wood. I gave my dad that look, you know the one, that ‘are you kidding?’ type of look. He’s used to it, he gets it like five times a day. Hey, he’s the type of guy who gives his daughter a broom for her birthday, what can he expect.
Anyway, back to the ‘you’ll never believe it’ part. I squinted down at the writing, dully noted it was vacillating between red and pink in pretty waves, then watched the MOUTH appear right above where I clutched my hands. The MOUTH is written in blue or green, it can’t really decide. That’s when I heard a hum. I thought it was my ears buzzing, so I shook my head.
Then I noticed the hum was coming from the MOUTH. The broom—

Golden Shovel

I have a shovel made of gold. I’ve been crafting the shovel for many years, its creation takes up most of my thought and effort. The purpose of the shovel is, as you might expect, to clear away snow — the cold, the dark, the unhappiness of being trapped in one place. I want to go where I will with no obstruction. I’ve always believed my shovel to be the means to that end.
Last night I was proven wrong.
My shovel and I had spent a productive week polishing the sidewalk all the way to Beijing, down to Tokyo, over to London. Content with my accomplishments I was spending a quiet day inside, admiring the products of my shovel, viz. my antique pieces standing on my beautiful marble fireplace. A knock sounded on the door, so I roused myself from my cozy stupor and went to answer. There stood my younger sister, red-faced with cold, eyes wide, hair escaping her cap in every direction. I hadn’t seen her since she married that sleazy clerk and moved to Chicago.
“What do you want?” I kept the opening small to hide my precious shovel.
Lips tight, she held up a wreath of pine and holly, like those we used to make every Christmas. Not anymore; I have my shovel, my shiny shovel of freedom.
“Merry Christmas,” she says, and under her coat I see a small bundle, tiny toes escaping worn socks.
Did I know of her kid, or remember how long ago I heard of her husband’s fatal accident?
On Christmas Eve, I was all alone, again. Maybe it was the holiday spirit, maybe it was that the shovel had, of late, been turning cold in my hands, but I felt my chest tighten.
“Merry Christmas,” I whispered, taking the wreath from her cold fingers. I led her inside, leaving the unneeded shovel to wait by the door: all my snow has melted.

TONY the ANT

Tony is an ant. One of those tiny black ones you squash without even noticing out on the front sidewalk, except Tony won’t squash because he’s made of the hardest substance in the universe, diaplathydrow, every crumb of which is worth its weight in saffron. Both substances are the only ones highly sought after throughout the entire universe, making Galactic Chief Head Guy Han Polo a rich kid indeed. Han Polo, or Harry Potter, or Herbert Patterson, whichever name he chooses for the day, is the regular spaceship-loving kid on the block. Herbert is on a galactic mission across the neighbor’s yards when he steps on Tony, who burns a hole through his sneaker in retaliation. Herbert, shocked enough to drop his current alien foe, possessing his sister’s rag doll, has to get down on his knees and pull out his inter-space telescope, or magnifying glass, to find Tony. Seeing him, Herbert knows his glory days have come.
“A real alien!” he breathes, reaching in his pocket for his mega-blaster-force-field, or magnet. The magnet creeps closer to the motionless Tony, who watches the boy through wary eyes.
‘Tony’ stands for Twa Owe NaYow, or ‘Little Moving Camera’ in English. Built for infiltration, to spy on Earth factions, his operator is an ordinary squid-alien named John. John has no idea what a magnet is, only finds the camera view swing wildly as Tony jumps forward at lightning speed to bond with the attraction.
“Haha!” Herbert cries, filled with a sense of accomplishment. He takes Tony home and keeps him as a souvenir. Little does he know he has saved Earth from certain and inevitable destruction by John and his associates, left bankrupt with their loss of Tony.
Tony is an ant with a magnet.

Writing

Since I originally created this blog to get me doing stuff with my writing, I've decided it's time to move from Japanese to ... writing.

I've been a member of Writing.com for about 5 years, I think, and recently I found a contest for 'flash fiction', stories in 300 words or less based on a prompt. It's really good practice for a) coming up with short ideas, b) writing, c) condensing material into as few words as I possibly can, and d) um, writing?

I love writing, but I often don't feel motivated because a) I don't have a lot of free time, between work/school/family/house/cats/my many hobbies, and b) no one will read my stuff except one of my younger sisters who doesn't give me feedback (she likes it all, bless her). Ok, I'm just being stupid, I know, because EI) am I the first person to try to write with a full schedule? I don't think so. I can make time if it's really important to me. BEE) well. Someday. It's for myself, right? Right? ...

Um, enough time here. My point is that from now on I'll try to come here about every day during lunch break or whatever to write a flash fiction piece. The first few will be the ones I already have, after that I'll stop cheating :P

I've kept a journal since I was 7, that's why I ramble so much. I apologize. Ciao!