QOTD: If you could be any inanimate object, what would you choose to be and why?
YAYY!!! I have been dreaming of this moment every single night for exactly thirty-seven days (total exaggeration is required to emphasize the excitement boiling inside of me right now).
It’s finally time for “Inanimation”!!! Let’s create our own Toy Stories, breathe life into those lost and forgotten dusty pieces of old furniture in our attics, and make kitchen utensils dance and sing as they make your favorite chicken pot pie!
As a short recap, here is the blogfest task:
The idea is to write an entry of NO MORE THAN 1000 words that somehow incorporates the personification of inanimate objects. It can be a poem, a short short, a letter (perhaps to your favorite childhood toy?), a fairytale, a scene from a dream, or even a song–anything you want! It can be something you’ve written in the past or it could be totally brand new…it’s all up to you!
AAaaaand here are the lovely participants!!! Once you have posted your own Inanimation entry, be sure to go around and visit everyone else’s. Get ready for the liveliest ride ever!!!
“The Keeper of the Keys”
The day she came back was the day I woke from the dead. It had been eight long, miserable months–or had it been even longer than that?–since I’d even seen her at all. Back in January, the father had begun to redecorate the house, or rather, throw out old pieces of furniture and buy new ones. He’d already trashed two dressers, an entire bed, and even the mini side table that had lived right across from me in the same room for over six years and had dutifully held the vase of flowers that was replenished every week. The vase was also discarded. I remember being so afraid that, at any moment, he was surely going to wheel me from the living room and throw me out too.
But the furniture spree began and ended, and still here I was. And yet, she–my owner, the keeper– still didn’t come back. It wasn’t until May that she returned to the house, looking a little bit taller and older and, well, more serious. Every day following her return, I waited eagerly for the moment when she’d waltz into the living room, open me up, and touch my keys. Each day that passed by, I was ignored–just like I had been for the past eight months. She was no longer the little ballerina who would waltz around her home like she was on Broadway. I gave up hope of ever coming to life again.
My keeper spent most of her hours cooped up in her bedroom on that ridiculous plaything that I heard was called a laptop. I spent hours listening to her punching those keys as fast as she could, the keys that could never play as beautifully as mine did. Why, then, did she so obviously prefer those keys over mine? It got to the point where I began to wish that the father had simply just trashed me with all of their other old stuff. What was the point of me taking up space when nobody wanted to dance, play, sing with me? I was aging, and fast–cobwebs began to intertwine around my legs and dust gathered between my keys. It was pretty itchy, but I eventually got used to it. After a while, I began to forget that I even existed.
Then, my life changed during one cold, rainy afternoon. I’d slipped into hibernation–what else was there for me to do but sleep nowadays? No sound was heard except for my owner click-clacking away at her laptop, the father watching television upstairs and the constant pit-pat-pit-pat of cloud tears outside. An occasional crack of thunder interrupted the rain’s poetry.
Someone cracked opened my lid and I was suddenly exposed. I shivered, not used to the air and wide open space, and couldn’t help but sneeze a little as dust flew from between keys. It felt good to get a breath of fresh air, but what was going on? It had been years since I was last tuned, and if I was about to be thrown out there’d be no need to open my fallboard.
After a moment, three fingertips touched me and pressed down each key, do re mi, one by one. Vibrations quivered around the hammers in my body and, for the first time in months, I laughed. I was flying through Fur Elise now, singing as loud as I could. The air was thick with music, and I knew it was my owner. Her movements were all too familiar, and nobody else knew how to play Fur Elise like she did. As her fingers flew across the board, she seemed to be saying to me, oh–there you are, I missed you, and I felt happier and more awake than I’d been in a long while.
It was like we’d never parted in the first place. It didn’t matter to me anymore that she’d abandoned me for so long…her coming back made me realize that she hadn’t forgotten me at all. She was the keeper of the keys, and always would be. And in that very moment, all I wanted was for her to play my music.
This is based on the relationship between me and my piano, but the excerpt above is embellished with fiction. I hope you enjoyed!