an object - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The chair was about as soulful as a bank convention at the Hilton. The wood was cheap and the paint machine sprayed. The advertising had cost more than the annual budget of a developing nation but it would sell in its millions so no problems there. It was a pleasing enough design, scandinavian most likely. It would blend in almost anywhere and appeal to many tastes: straight enough for the minimalists with a cute cross over at the back for the "country at heart" crowd. Perfect. Banged out in a factory and shipped flat packed. Tina wanted to do something to make it at least a little bit personal, but Mom frowned every time she brought the stencils out.
Lauren looked at flower and her sense of darkness grew. It was just the right shape and her favourite colour, but it was made of refined crude oil products. What function did it really have in her life? It had no fragrance, it didn't turn toward the sunlight that streamed through the french doors. She never picked it from a meadow. There were no memories associated with it other than buying it from a store. So why did she want it anyway? Because it never died? Was she too lazy to replace a real flower? She stuck out her hand like it was jet propelled and plucked it from its equally plastic vase. It was just another fake thing in her fake world and she wanted it gone.
Gran turned the pen over and over like it was some kind of wand, like she'd never seen one before. Then her wizened features cracked into that old familiar grin and Fiona just knew a tale was about to unfold. She wrapped her arm into the crook of Gran's elbow and looked up at her with the same expression she wore when dessert was on the way. “Your Grandfather had a pen just like this,” she said, “it was the one we signed our marriage certificate with down at the old church. It had the same dusky blue, the same gold band, but it was new of course. I didn't see it after that; I suspect he kept in safe in one of his drawers. I wish I'd taken the time to go through it all myself. But after he passed, well, it was just stuff wasn't it?” Gran paused, taking in a heavy breath, before reasserting her smile. “But let's keep this one, what is it Fifi? A dollar?”
The newspaper lies on the table, curled and with teeth marks from the dog. Jasper looks down at it like it's week old pasta, his mouth scrunched and eyebrows arched. Then with a “pock, pock” noise that he makes with his lips, he moves on to the kitchen to brew coffee. There was nothing right with chewed up news, just thinking about it made his fingers curl. Now the spit was on the table too, he winced until the familiar aroma met his nostrils. Now that was more like it, perfect Arabica bean and cream. One oven heated danish and he was ready to start his day. But perhaps he'd go out the back way, just seeing what was left of his paper would set him on edge again and that would never do. Not at all.
The keys lay on the sidewalk in that way they do when dropped from a height, like they are straining to take the from of an ink blot. Sarah almost stepped right on them before stopping and scanning the street for their owner. Besides a deer that was eating her neighbours dutch tulips, not a whole lot was going on. The street was rain kissed like it always is in the late winter and the trees were just as bare as they'd been the day before. She picked them up feeling their coldness, but that didn't tell her much. The heat drains from metal fast. She turned them over, one was for a car, the others likely a home. Someone should have missed them, or maybe they did but couldn't find them. With a sigh she headed back into her house, displeased with this new complication.
Lying on the ground was a traffic cone, mud splattered and cracked. It just didn't belong there. There were no road works for miles. Lara walked closer and bent down to pick it up. The mud wasn't even the rich black of their neighbourhood, it was a sloppy washed out grey, clayish perhaps. She took two fingers to put it right side up, careful not to smear her office clothes. She dragged it next the sidewalk and started back to her house. That's when she saw the disposable camera and the feathers, pink, yellow and cyan. Whatever had happened in the street last night she wished she'd seen it, but she'd had the best nights sleep in ages and that wasn't a thing to be regretted.
The object made no sense at all. It had no internal mechanism more complicated than a pocket watch, yet it was cold like dry ice. It was the size of a golf ball, round, but without the pitted surface and stuck to any bare skin in touched. Poor Nathan lost a chunk of his hand that way. If we dropped it into hot water it would turn it to ice faster than our cameras could capture the change. It was as if that tiny sphere could never take in enough heat and whatever it took it could never give back. It was simply frozen. We tried larger and larger volumes but to no avail. It made no sense at all that something so small had no limits. We would have tested it more but that's the last we ever saw of it. Whoever has it now will be exploring its uses no doubt. But to use an object is not the same as to understand it, and only from understanding can we further our scientific knowledge. And whilst I want the Nobel Prize, of course I do, it's the thirst of the quest that keeps me rising each day.
Trina loved her radio almost as much as her cat. It was like the one she'd grown up with, wood around the outside with circular dials and speaker. In her otherwise department store home it was the only object she felt an emotional attachment to. It brought her music, comedy and old fashioned plays. It never demanded her attention but instead sat quiet and unassuming until called upon. Even if she changed her entire decor that radio would stay - regardless of whether it was the perfect accent piece or a horrible clash. She didn't care either way. One day she'd be an old woman with it by her bedside even if it broke. Then she'd just play the greatest hits from her youth from whatever new-fangled thing was available and just pretend it was from her beloved old radio.