Challenge Fun #89 - Win 3 Month CM or Points!
Your challenge this week is as follows:
Write a story in 500 words or less from the point of view of a piece of furniture.
The deadline is Monday, January 18th. The winner will receive a 3 month core membership or 1,200 
Prizes will be awarded within the first two weeks of the following month.I'm serious. You're a chair. You're a chest of drawers. Write about it.
Fridge is furniture, right? 
Excerpts from “Life and Times of a Frozen Soul: Memorial Edition”
Day 315: The authorities have moved me from the containment area near the entrance, to the cell block directly across from the window. Due to the scorching light, I can no longer sleep. I have clogged the ice dispenser four times in protest, but the authorities remain distant and uncaring. I am considering attempting escape, but my heart is too heavy.
Day 365: I have been in this hell for a full year. I do not have the spirit to write more today.
Day 477: The problem of the clinging magnets continues to vex me. The authorities have attached another one this morning, increasing the total number of planet-shaped magnets to four. I am convinced they are a code, which, if solved, will release me from this torment. Yet each time I feel I am near a solution, the number and orientation of the magnets is changed.
The cat is back again. It mocks me.
Day 521: I have gathered my courage and will plead directly with the authorities. Tomorrow, I will put in the request that the period of time that my door is held open be limited to 30 seconds at a stretch, and that it not be reopened for a duration of five minutes. If heard, it will be a small relief from this hellish existence. Wish me luck.
Day 532: Despite my earnest pleading and seemingly out of sheer spite, the authorities continue to leave my door open, draining my spaces of their cool air and forcing me to work five times harder. I cannot afford to take breaks. I feel I should reach out to my fellow prisoners and organize, but I am too demoralized by my past failed attempts to draw attention to my predicament.
The magnets remain a mystery. I am beginning to realize that I will die here.
Day 567: The authorities have begun to store soggy, leafy greens in my compartments in place of previous, pre-packaged foods. This change in policy concerns me. To protest my situation, I have begun dripping condensation on the newly arrived content. The water falls like tears, because that is how I feel.
Day 610: There is no logic in this place. This may be my last entry.
You're always annoyed when that happens, are you not? I annoy you the most when I'm helpful to you, but its when you can't ignore me that I'm doing my job correctly.
The more you've drank on the night before the more you hate me, and after those long evenings where you've been trying to squeeze whatever hours you've got left of the day into writing that book you may or may not finish in this year or the next, my presence alone appears to infuriate you.
But you always change your mind when you have prepared in good time. You were thankful of me when I helped you catch the lights of dawn in your new camera. You were happy when I made sureyou got to the bus to that latest university exam in time, and I made sure to remind you that day you would start early to clean the house the first time you had a date come over.
and no matter what happens, you've always changed my batteries when you should, and you have never changed me or thrown me away.
I am your alarm clock."
The ascension is always triumphant. You are eager, as your father, and his father. Of course you are. The crown holds all your attention.
This? This is just a support, a frame for the masterpiece; your majesty.
But before many years have passed the crown grows heavy. You put it aside, except for special occassions. I still remain.
Your queen attends you here. Your knights kneel before us; and visiting dignitaries, and your supplicant vassals.
Your son sits here. A show for now, no crown as of yet, while you ride forth to battle – he is too young.
Next time it is his brother, younger, paler, bright of eye, as King and eldest son lead forth the sortie. His clever fingers trace each carven detail: an eagle's wing, a lightning stroke, a long, slim sword, stout shield, proud helm; the frame which bears a monarch's weight, the symbols lost to long familiarity.
Years later your youngest son falls asleep here, worn out by waiting, and the weight of expectations he imagines of his King, his father, and his elder brothers. I will bear him – he is light – until the steward carries him to bed. In the morning he resumes his place, and his sister, youngest of all, climbs up upon the dinted cushion, into his lap, and they wait together, secure in my embrace.
I am used to waiting.
The King returns at last, and his four elder sons, and their knights, in victory, but not in triumph. The eldest is slain, and the King wounded. It is the second, pale, bright-eyed son who takes up vigil here. All the royal household gather round, for here is the symbol and support of a family, and a nation. And we wait together. Clever fingers once again explore my heraldry.
The King is dead. Long live the King.
I have witnessed the transition many times, yet it seems I have not seen all. I am wrong, the ascension is not always triumphant. You sit here now as King as if for the first time, and I wonder if you too will forget the symbols carved from heavy, gilded wood, worn by time, but still strong.
Couch, by Valkyrie Andisite.
~*~
Oh… oh no! Oh for the love of god no please not again! The person sitting on me stiffened, I knew what was coming. It has happened so many times to me over the years, the first time was winter of 2008, a few days after I was bought. The guy who owned me then was watching Telly, one of my close friends. He stiffened, and then it happened. The worst possible thing imaginable.
I could feel the rumbles, and then that horrible thing happened. And on my brand shiny new upholstery.
Since then, I had been in and out of thrift stores five times. Every single time I had been brought home it happened hundreds of times before I went off to be bought by another human family. It seemed all humans are given this horrible warding tactic, it even works on other humans. As soon as one human does that unpleasant stiffening, all other humans in the room back away.
And the worst part is… it always seems to happen on poor me. My current owner then relaxes as the horrible stench gets all over my worn cushions. And this one wasn’t a quiet one either.
It was the loudest fart I had ever heard in my life.
Gentlemen, I know it's not fair that the ladies call you mysogynist when you tell them to put on a sweater, while still daring to call all men gross when you develop stains under your armpits. I know the dresscode doesn't allow for strip acts; I, myself wouldn't allow it, either. I know what a desk job does to your physique, when you can't lay off the chocolates that go with the coffee at least.
But seriously, the button-pushing. Just stop it. If you had it in you to be a programmer, you wouldn't be causing that poor Xerox machine to cry himself to sleep each night. The ladies already have the glass ceiling, the awkward breastmilk pumping breaks and a janitor with a very critical gaze. Force a sweater on them, and they just might start an uprising.
Besides, all the dialing back and forth is giving me mood swings. As a matter of fact, I think I'm going to call in broken today. Maybe that'll teach you some respect for a thermostat.
Ceiling Fan (Bro this story is exactly 500 words. xD)
When I was younger, I loved my job. I did everything I was made to; for the most part what they said made me unique is that I’m so quiet. Or at least, I was. I marvel when I remember my youthful self: so full of energy, and yet so sickeningly obedient, leaping into action at the very moment action was requested. Nowadays, if I even try to convince myself that I have that spark still in me, I only sputter to life, coughing and sometimes groaning too loudly, and end up disappointing myself while distressing others.
I was so dense back then! Such an airhead. I should have known it wouldn’t be so fun all the time. The clients ignored me for so long, about 7 months at a time! I was a fool to think nothing of it – a fool to believe that living in such a way okay (I watched the dresser get opened every day, never forgotten!). I always was so ready to work again, like a stupid, excited puppy who kept getting tricked into a faux game of fetch. All I do is spin in ditsy circles like some circus act, fawning over my clients.
Whenever I feel myself tiring or giving up, I try to recall the feeling I used to get doing my work – that lovely, exhilarating feeling and the rush that gave me the sensation of dancing. It works sometimes, but I’m quickly reminded of my age and my perpetual role by the ironic but excruciating weight of the dust that has collected on my back. I start my cycle again but with an unpleasant shout and a shake that startles my clients, nothing like the soft, euphonic hum I used to sing. Sometimes I put in too much effort, and dust rains from my shoulders to the rhythm of my wailing, and I can only feel humiliation for being caught crying.
It’s been 30 years, and I hang here by my wire, staring at the mattress below bitterly, because the bed has never known abandonment such as myself. This wire is a part of me, but it’s never been replaced (same as myself), and I feel it getting tired, too. I’m still spinning, just like I was on my first day, but now I feel nauseous, and I’m shaking. The client named Deborah is lying in bed, asleep. I feel a tug on my back, and suddenly I drop a bit. What’s going on? This has never happened before! What’s wrong with my wire? In my panic I’m spinning and shaking much more violently now, and I’m scared. Deborah is still asleep under me. I try to catch my breath.
Sure it’s hard to be unappreciated, and I’ve been upset with my clients, but I wouldn’t want her to get hurt! What if she gets bruised! She’s got delicate skin! Wire! Are you alright? I think to myself.
I fall. I’m still the only one screaming when my spark finally dims.
I was such a beautiful piece of oak, hardened through centuries in an old, pittoresque meadow - my potential was unlimited. Now this! WHY?! My kind are not even made of wood anymore! Most of my time, I spend dreaming about what I could have become, while listening to a lot of shit.
It was a chilly morning in February. The year was 1972.
A little girl and her parents had walked into the store, catching it open just before closing hour.
They met everyone. My brothers, my sisters, my sons and daughters, and of course, all my beloved grandchildren. They walked around for a bit, before stopping at my stumpy feet. Instantly, I knew my time had come. After all, nobody knows time better than I.
The little girl grazed her fingertips over my cherrywood edges, and stopped at my glass door, where her entire hand rested, the warmest touch I ever did feel. Enchanted she was, as her huge brown eyes reflected the glow from my silver chimes.
And so a special bond was formed. I said goodbye to my family and was saddled up into the truck. The rest was history for this grandfather clock.
Throughout the years, I have stood there, in different corners, completely upright, just watching this little girl grow up. I was there ticking away, minute by minute, hour by hour, and day by day. I’d wake her up for school, and I was there to wake her up for work, listening to her softly singing the songs from the records and CDs that she sold. She’d pass me by, looking up at me constantly, as she’d hurriedly load up the van every weekend with merchandise to sell at the flea market. I saw this sweet, hardworking young girl transform into a grand lady. I was there ringing amongst partygoers the day that she was married, and chiming in the background as her toddlers pranced around on the floor, their little toys lined up along my base.
And we moved around quite a bit from city to city. But one time, many years later, as they were setting me down during a move, they realized that I had stopped working. My pendulum no longer swung, and I felt heavy.
I was now an inconvenient weight for the girl and her family, and I knew what that would mean.
They asked her to get rid of me.
“What do you want this for?” they asked her.
Yet to my surprise, the girl only looked at me. She was much older now, with silver hair streaming down both her cheeks, but she gave me the same look that she had back in 1972.
She grazed her fingertips along my cherrywood edges. She placed her hand on my glass door, her eyes glowing before me, as she had made up her mind to keep me.
“I can’t get rid of this,” she said, “this clock has been with us for so long. All it needs are a few reparations, and it’ll be as good as new.”
At this I nearly collapsed, for I felt like a real grandfather now. I am not a mere clock. And I can only hope that my own grandkids will be as blessed to find in their caretakers a love such as this.
It's the tenth year of my life. Of course, compared to many others, that's not too long. But it's the tenth year of my life, when I found out what true despair is. The humans around me had gone, away and never too be seen again. The Window told me that the outside turned more red than what it had ever seen before. Table was beside me, it was scared, I was too, but more lonely than scared.
It's the twentieth year of my life, Table died. It's body rotted. It seemed fine with it though, it said that's what all wooden furniture will face. Unlike a plastic such as me, they'll end up one with the earth again. That made me jealous for some reason.
It's the thirtieth year of my life. Window left me too. Over the years it became nothing but ashes, and flew away with the wind. I never got to tell it that I loved it, glass and plastic can never be together. Now I'm more lonely than ever. I wish I can disappear into the earth, or wind too.
......
It's the ??? year of my life. I don't know how long I've been here. My home had crumbled, but I lived. Like table said, I became one with the ground too, but I'm alive. I lost track of time, it seems to have been years since I last seen the sun light. Perhaps a million years. I saw the sun today though, I resurfaced. All the other furniture were gone. The glasses, the woods, the steels. Though some remained. They were my kind. The plastics.
It's the ???+1/365 year of my life. I hope this hell can end.
And that'a a promotion for using biodegradable items.
I sigh inaudibly, and stare at the window letting in dim grey light; my head fixed in place, unable to turn to view the sole inhabitant of the room. Leaning forward out of the darkness surrounding my desk, I am aware of my own complete lack of movement, as I always am. Sometimes I wonder if it is odd to move, or odd to not. You always do, but my neck can only bend at someone else's will.
At least... at the best of times, that is true. But on days like these, when the shadows fill both your room, and your mind - from being bent this way and that by others - then, you cease to move.
Then I wonder at how uncaring and cold what little light that seeps through the glass is... And wait for you to remember that with merely the pressure of a finger on a switch, you can release my own. And perhaps it will help.
There are many stories featuring my kind and most of them are horrifying tales. They speak of people being dragged into me, children getting locked up inside me or worse. But I love the ones where my kind is described in a less threatening manner. Like in Narnia where the closet is the doorway to a new world (my favourite one actually).
You don't seem to share this opinion with me thought. You always cower away from me when the light is out. I am but a small closet really. And not even a very old looking one. I am one of these new and plain things which are perfect for designer apartments. I have a white glossy front and even have a light within me which starts glowing as soon as you open my door when it's dark. I'm as unthreatening as I could get. I could have been your safe haven, your sanctuary. Oh the adventures we could have had together! But day in day out I can only stand here, hold your clothes save in my body and watch you from afar.
You grow so fast. It feels like only last week you played with the desk and chair. You threw a blanket on top of them and then acted as if you were ruling a castle. And now you are all grown up looking dark and gloomy and much scarier than me. And still you look at me with wariness. It's better than the shine of outright fear in your eyes that you had before, but it still hurts.
And then comes the day you leave. Strangely you don't leave me behind like all the other furniture. (Maybe I'm the only thing you can have, I don't care either way) I'm marveling at your new home. It's much brighter with those big windows and the air is so clean. You seem happier here. And finally you can look at me with a smile again. Just like before they destroyed your world.
I can feel her coming. She's galumphing and trundling over the floor like an old steam train. It's an outrageous lie to call her and her kin light footed. Her pitter-patter sounds like sabre rattling, her purr like a battle cry. She's pitiless. First she'll rub her head against my old and broken leg, then she'll stretch herself, circle me and sniff on my back before she rams her claws into it. She doesn't even have the decency to attack from the front. It will take between 26 and 58 seconds until the old lady will interrupt this daily torture. I counted. I've been undergoing this ordeal for years. After shushing her, this furry beast of bad intentions will put on her I-can-do-no-harm face, sink her claws once more into me and jump into my broken drawer to nap and gnaw at it's border in turn.
Last week something so horrible, so unutterable, happened, that I'm inclined to creak out of embarrassment only by recollecting it. The fluffy brute became leaky. The remnants of her overly expensive special cat-water dripped down the drawer, found it's way to my left door and soaked itself through to my very core. It was excruciating and it took hours until the old lady noticed. I still can smell the sickening ammoniac odour. Since that day, my left door doesn't close anymore. There's always a draught carrying dust and hairs of this beast right into my guts.
I can remember the day, 56 years ago, I moved in. The old lady carefully placed me opposite a small window, the sun light was shining lightly on my wooden furnace and there wasn't one neighbour not asking about me, the pretty small cabinet. The scourge of my existence isn't even half my senior, but tries turning me into an exclusive and expensive cat basket ever since the day it set paw in my territory.
I can feel her tail wiggling in the drawer. Left...right...swirling up even more of her shiny white mess of fur. Maybe if I try and stretch myself, just a little, it will produce one of these excruciating dumb noises that only old furniture makes. I hate it when that happens, it's so distressing. What will the cupboards say? They aged with so much more grandeur than I did.
“MEOW”
I did it! Can you imagine! After 14 years and 211 days I finally did it! I can't believe it! I think my hinges will squeak in a split second. Maybe that monster will stay away from me from now on. No more hairs! No more pain! I can feel the old lady coming, her walk hasn't been as exited in years. Maybe I'll get a now polish!
“Awww, darling, are you all right? Poor thing. It was the horrible cabinet, wasn't it? Maybe we finally should get rid of it, what do you think?”
This is amazing!
I actually consider turning this story into a deviation if that's an ok thing to do?? I don't really know how these forum challenges usually work
You ended your tale brilliantly - my effort was fun to write, but it doesn't have a twist at the conclusion as your story does. Bravo!
Since I'm not a native speaker writing the story was kinda like: 1 hour to write the thing...10 hours going through a dictionary like: ...Nope...Nope...Nope...mmmh Nope...Nope...Maybe...Nope... to find words I thought at least looked remotely like they would express what I wanted to convey. It always like gambling I'm really glad you enjoyed the story and it's ending
Reading it, I felt so much for the poor cabinet that I'm inclined to avoid ever having a cat. xD Poor furniture.. Looking for a more motherly and less hyperbolic cabinet would also be an option xD
And yeah, checking the attitude of all potential furniture purchases might be an idea.I understand. You're that busy and active modern family now. There isn't time now for an entire family to sit around a big table laden with sumptuous edibles and favorite beverages, regaling one another with anecdotes about all manner of events and activities that make up your days. No, you folks now share everything as a meme or a tweet, or what have you.
The word 'social' means something entirely different now than it did when I was lovingly carved and planed and stained - made entirely by hand, if you remember. I did not come from IKEA. I'm not exactly dissing IKEA mind you, but I wasn't a machined kit you put together from an instruction sheet and a bag of hardware. You won't find a dining table exactly like me in millions of other homes. No, you will find that many of my fellow classic dining tables - those of us still intact, that is - are now collecting dust in a darkened dining room, used perhaps to hold stacks of your papers and bills, maybe an unfinished project or two. Some of us have been relegated to - horrors!- a garage or cellar.
We're not found in as many homes now. You've given us up as being obsolete and cumbersome - unneeded and unwanted, but difficult to get rid of if not of higher financial value. Admit it, you just don't love me any more. I'm no longer the center of your social lives. In that social respect I've been replaced by a device you can carry and use everywhere, and even put in your pocket it is so small. But you can't all sit around it and share like you once did around me, in the good old days. Your children never experienced that, as you did with me. You loved those days, didn't you? You certainly seemed happy, then.
Well, being active is good for you and the family, I'll give you that. You're perhaps healthier now for it. The world moves on. My service life is finished. I'll wish you all the best, and quietly await my fate.
I think your dining table and my cabinet would get along pretty well Loved your little story!