The Word Cloud

March Comp
The challenge this time is a nicely simple one. Take any commonplace item - a coin, a book, a herring, a thistle seed, a computer byte - and give us a snippet from its life history. So a coin might want to tell us about being lost behind a sofa, being found, being exchanged for pizza, &c.

Details
Max 200 words. Each entry should be given the title of the thing itself: 'A coin', 'A book', etc. You can tell the story in the first person or the third person - but we do want real personality and flavour in the writing. What does a coin sound like? How would it tell its tale?

To enter, just post a reply on the thread below. If you want to talk about the comp, then it's best to do so by creating a whole new thread - otherwise this one starts to get over-cluttered.

Prize.
Flowers or fizz for the winner. The winning entry will be picked in early April. I'm expecting wonders.

A Bullet

I remember slipping with a loud click, from the magazine into the dark chamber. I remember the smell of oil, and the little point of blue that I knew must be the sky. A while I lay in the darkness, and then it came, the touch of the firing pin and the heat and crash as the charge in my casing erupted ripping me in two and thrusting me down that smoothed and riffled barrel. For an instant I caressed the light and then I plummeted, till I hit the soft tissue made hard by my velocity. The impact pushed and strained my form, spreading me as I fell and tumbled, cascading chaos from rib to rib, slicing through veins, arteries and organs, a sucking vacuum in my wake as I slowed and finally stopped.

Only once more did I see the light, as I was held in between steel points, and now I lie forever in obscurity, in the Black Museum, my brief life is over, for I am the bullet that killed WPC Yvonne Fletcher. On 17 April 1984 in St James’s Square, I lived, I flew and we both died.

A Word.

Who is the world's oldest unpaid prostitute and moaner? It's me. I'm air to some, ink to others and pixels to a few, yet I'm abused by mankind as no other soul. A refugee, I plead for loving care and get none. Government provisions do not protect me; rather bury me in semicolons and borborygmus. And damn you BBC and greedy Booker prize winners too; toss me a dime. I keep you alive; I fill your waking hours with literary orgasms and what thanks do I get – not a thought, not a murmur, just endless grind. Today I waited patiently for a customer, but none came - not even one of the very worst ones like the front page of the Sunday Times or the man composing the notice saying where the bogs are in Piccadilly underground station. My ancestors may have been grunts, but I'm proud of my origins. Never fussy, but I do respect a good sentence when I see it. Some of my best friends have gender. I've even invited a couple to tea today. We words have a tradition to uphold. Neither snob or racist be, but I know my OED from their Wiki.

The Collar

What you must understand, above all, is that there’s no life before you’ve been buckled on. There’s a jingle, movement and warmth, and I’m lying against flat brown fur. His joy is mine – when he jumps and dances, I’m there. We both know what this means, what I mean. Within days, his scent is my scent.

When he fills out, ribs disappearing as fast as the memories of the shelter, they loosen me another notch. When they open the door to the garden, we are one with the wind and sun and rain and, most epically, the mud. We are only separated to be bathed. I ask the other things I cavort with in the machine what their life is like, but they are silent. They do not buckle, they do not live. They haven’t got a tag that says who they are, who they belong to.

I grow weary over time, fraying, fading. But even so, I do not mind. Rocco fades as well. We fade together. On our special blanket on the sofa, I dream drowsily of the wind, and of the day we’ll run with it again. That day comes soon, says the heartbeat underneath me. Soon.

Fifty Pence There was a time when fingers used to probe the crevices of my current home - and shrieks of joy rang out when I surfaced - but now I am left alone in the dark with only crumbs and fluff for company. It's not the first time I've found myself falling from the cradle of denim, yet I have little hope of being rescued this time. Once upon a time I could be swapped for all sorts of material goods and travelled far and wide. From hand-to-hand I would pass, never remaining in one place for long. Then up popped Mr. Plastic and now I'm surplus to requirements. Your 'flexible friend' has deemed me worthless in myself, and even with friends we don't amount too much. 'Too much hassle counting and carrying' we hear you cry, 'Let's just put it on the card.' So now, here I am, unused and unloved, wedged in the forgotten piggy-bank with only the rumbles of your stomach gasses as the highlight of my day.

Energy saving light bulb

Summer's the worst time of year. I'm kept in suspense, all day and most of the night just waiting on a meteorological whim. I pray for the storm clouds to gather and the deluge to commence just so I can get some action. Or at the very least a brief flicker before I'm turned off, shunned, as Thor shoots his thunderbolts across the sky and into my room. Damn those Gods. My makers are mere humans.

'Flick the swtich' - telepathy never works when you're made of glass, hidden in the shade.

Winter's better. I'm in my element. King of the room, free to roam into every hidden corner, casting shadows wherever I wish. They're glad of me then as they huddle and squint in the light. I can be benevolent, caress them with a warm glow. It's my favourite time of the year.

Ring

A year later and it might have been a brass utility ring, but he is just in time to catch me, the slimmest, cheapest of gold bands, My Love etched into my tender belly. I lie dormant in my shagreen box, sleeping in velvet until I am slipped onto her trembling finger. I am as conscious of my new home as she is conscious of my presence, but soon I have settled, snug, and I can barely remember being anywhere else.

The morning the papers arrive that will take him away in stiff, unfamiliar khaki, she twists me round and round, anxiety bleeding from her fingertips.

When he comes home, all too briefly, his hand in hers is thinner, calloused, and he squeezes so tight that my perfect circle is forever misshapen; misshapen, but not corrupted.

Her fingers lose their shape too. I feel them thicken and roughen from shell after shell, but she can sacrifice delicate hands for the war effort, she says.

There are, however, other sacrifices.

When he is taken away again, snatched by a telegram with no goodbye, she twists me once more, twists and twists until I can hardly bear it and neither can she.

The Escape Key

Day after day here I sit at the outer rim of my personal little galaxy. Waiting. Waiting. My entire family always live on the edge, top left, as far from the centre of operations as it’s possible to get. From here I can look across the vast plain of the keyboard and see everyone else doing something useful, active, contributing. Nearby I see Q. He just did some useful work. And 1, right by me. He has two jobs because he can be an exclamation mark as well. All numbers can change. Those function keys, they can do powerful stuff, turn on the WiFi, switch the screens around. But me, I just sit here. Fingers fly, fingers hover, fingers pound, but never on me. You know what I think? I think my owner doesn’t know what I’m for. Actually, I don’t know what I’m for either. There’s a legend I had a job once. I heard it at the factory. Now I stand ready to say it; 00011011. See I said it and nothing happened. There isn’t a programme that listens to me. Not any more. So here I sit, out on the edge, nothing to do. Bored!

A Crisp Packet

As a snack I reigned true
My packet white and blue
The sharp tangy taste
Eaten with relish and haste

But now I float in the wind
(Though I should have been binned)
Floating light as a feather
In this breezy weather

Kicked back and forth by cars
Bumping into the wrapper of mars
Wondering what is the next tricks
For the bag of salt and vinegar chip sticks

A urinal in an East End fast food establishment

Here ‘ee comes again.

“That’s right – pick a bowl, any bowl mate!”

‘Ee’s ‘ad asparagus last night, I betcha. Always does on a Friday night. Nonce! ‘Course it’s the missus. All la-di-f***in’-da. Likes to watch those TV chef programmes that Spotty Cretin from the kitchen always goes on about when ee’s ‘avin’ a tomtit.

Anyway, ‘ere we go!

“That’s right mate, make sure to point percy at the porcelain!”

Now what did I tell ya? Asparagus! Gawd, blimey! What did I ever do wrong! Anyway, I bet ‘ee don’t let on to ‘er indoors ‘ee spends every Saturday morning tuckin’ into a McMuffin’ breakfast. Too bloody right mate!

“That’s the ticket, jingle jangle. Get yer Alan Whickers up mate.”

Am I talkin’ to me-self ‘ere? Should’a shaken the snake properly. What a two-an’-eight.

“Dead giveaway, that wet patch!”

Gawd, blimey, now it’s the squirts turn. No, not ‘cause ee’s bloody small. Bloody 6 foot 2 in’ee.

It’s the targets that chutney ferret of a manager ‘ad stuck on me bowls. ‘Ere we go. Splashin’ all over the f***in’ gaff!

“Cheers mate!”

Next wipe’s not till bloody lunchtime. Gawd an’ Bennit.

The Monitor

Monday morning blues… They think we don’t notice? Here I sit, covered in dust and spit and, oh no… Joanna has another cold.

‘Oye, don’t shake me, it isn’t my fault the programme won’t load, or the interent’s slow… not my fault you can’t type, either. Heavy weekend? Your eyes are bleary, or is it finger-marks? That scowl doesn’t suit you and neither does that shade of lipstick. What do you mean my screen isn’t wide enough? The clues is in the word; spread-sheet?’

I wish she’d cover her mouth when she coughs. I am not obsolete… though my icons are all over the place and something keeps flashing on my task bar. Oh help, of the on-line variety; I know this chap in the badly-fitting suit. Poor old Acer X223w went to the big recycling skip in the sky only last month and his replacement thinks he’s above the rest of us, being shiny and not covered in snot. Who’s he going to… he’s walking this way. I feel all blue screen, my pixels are wobbling and…

‘Joanna?’

Ugh, did she have to sneeze? He’s reaching behind me for the plug and I think he’s going to…

One day she won’t remember where she left me. Or it’ll be too far to go back and she’ll abandon me. She thinks she can replace me. She can’t! She won’t find one like me again. Not in the whole of London. She bought me in France. We were close then. She’s an art teacher and she was thrilled to find me. I’m educational you see. I have fifteen sections arranged in a colour wheel and a bamboo shaft and handle. I was vital to her image. She took me everywhere. She took me to school all the time. Used me to teach the children about primary and secondary colours. I‘m practically an artwork. At least I used to be. I look my age now. She took me out in a hurricane. That’s when my stitching ruptured. I did my best against that wind but the strain was terrible. Three of my spokes gave out and bent. It was so cold, such driving rain and it hailed. Even so, I didn’t turn inside out. I endured it. I sheltered her. But I have’nt been able to fold up properly since. She said she’d get me mended. That’ll be the day!

How does she think I feel? She never forgot me when I was new. It’s different now. Two weeks I’ve been here. It’s the third time she’s left me in this café. They leave me out here in this draughty umbrella stand. Thank God it’s raining. Look. That’s her...... What’s she holding?

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The exciting life of Jak’s underwear.

It’s been a long time since I sat in a draw, or even washed for that matter. I’ve spent most my life either stuck to the bathroom floor or if I’m really unlucky, I’m plastered to his sweaty groin. I’ve often wondered what material I’m made out of. I don’t think I’m cotton, as even I at times have problems breathing. Maybe a nylon based material, I’m certainly not silk.

I’ve heard people say that there are eight ways to wear a pair of underpants but Jak only seems to know one. He checks to make sure the skid marks are at the back, lemon stains are at the front, and then peals me open and pulls me up.

It’s not all bad I suppose, you get used to the smell and the crustiness is unavoidable. But it would be nice to be washed once in a while, maybe every month, or even every six months.

A Pocket
'Ouch! The car keys again. I wish he'd have a bit of consideration for my creaky old seams. It's not as if I'm getting any younger. Ooh, that was sharp.
Just last week, I really thought I was going to expire at the dry cleaners. There was some new chemical eating right into my very fabric - and the steam! Well, I nearly melted into a gaping hole - and then where would he keep all his paraphernalia?
I've seen a few things I can tell you, some of them quite unmentionable... like those frilly knickers he had to hide from his poor wife. But that's enough about that.
Then there was the time said wife stitched me up. The big needle and the double stitching weren't half excruciating. I did resent being labelled "that bloody pocket". Was it my fault he wore a hole in me? How was I expected to stop that £20 note and extra slim mobile phone from escaping? Beyond the call of duty, I reckon.
"Atishoo! Gerrrrrumph..."
What's this now? Oh no. Here I go again - completely stuffed. Whoof.'

A book

It felt as if I had been left on the shelf for good, before I caught your roving eye. One glance and a single touch; for once my title did not get in the way. Your gentle fingers sent a shiver down my spine, and then suddenly I was in your arms. I wished that I were better dressed; my jacket was old and torn, the stitching coming apart at the seams. You didn’t seem to care. You had turned over a new leaf, and no longer judged a book by its cover.

You ignored the usual introductory blurb and gently slipped off my jacket, caressing my hard back and laying bare my soul. Without a spoken word, our thoughts were one. All too soon, you were reading between the lines and I knew you couldn’t wait to slip between my sheets. Was this a recipe for success at last?

And then just as suddenly, the romance was over. No life sentence for me. You took my ISBN number, and promised to call. But there was to be no sequel. I was back on the shelf. I’m no chick-lit after all, but destined to be ‘Cooking for One’ forever.

A rose

He chose me with such intimacy that I knew I would be going to a good home. He stretched his rough large hands around my stem so tenderly; I had no fear of suffocating, or being broken. My petals were shaking with excitement as he instructed the florist to wrap me in the most beautiful tissue paper and ribbon she could find.

Outside I was sheltered from the rain, he placed me on the passenger seat of his car, moving the box of chocolates to the floor, and I held my pride of place position, right next to him.

Once more he held me close to his heart, I could hear it beating. I imagined the two of us together. A door opened, words exchanged and I was passed without a second thought into the hands of a stranger. She didn’t understand the love I needed, the care I craved.

Now I am alone. I am crammed amongst carnations, barely recognisable by my once glowing red petals and strong green stem. Now I sit and wilt and dream of what I once was.

Word Count: 183

T V Remote

Everybody wants me. Everybody argues over me. I’m often lost and spend much of my time between the cushions on the sofa, sharing space with other discarded and long forgotten items. Odd socks, pens, loose change and last week when one of them had flu, an abundance of snot filled tissues. For something so loved why do they throw me about all over? Why, when my batteries run out do they insist on shaking me or hitting me? Just replace the batteries and I’ll work again!! I am quite the best T V remote ever because I am a universal remote. I have power over the TV, video, DVD player and Sky box. Without me they get frustrated and swear. Getting up out of the chair and turning the telly over is incomprehensible to them. This is why I know I am a much loved member of the household and I do love it when they push my buttons!

A SNOWFLAKE

I glistened under the bright white illuminated sky as my uniquely shaped delicate frame floated down slowly, settling on top of a bulk of soft recently fallen snow.

All was still, yet the playful laughter of children could be heard in the not too far distance.

I lay there, boasting my twinkling beauty, being the final snowflake to fall.

Some time passed. The sun was now starting to peek through, revealing itself way up high behind the blinding sheet of white. It could be seen as roundish gleaming golden haze, shielded behind the icy sheet of sky.

The sound of laughter faded away into a silence. The children had gone.

The golden haze grew brighter. I could feel myself starting to dribble away slowly at my finely detailed tips. I lay there peacefully, gradually melting away under the sun.

That was my life as a snowflake.

WORD COUNT 148

The Watch

The Glass

I sat there alone on the bar, the deep base of the seductive music vibrated through me, my insides rippling to the steady beat. The surrounding lighting was dim, however the ultraviolet lighting illuminating the bar casted an attractive glow right through me.

At that moment I felt a single finger teasingly encircle my rim several times. From the gentle touch I could tell she was female.

I felt her fingers slide sensually down my sides as she then raised me to her lips with care.

As her lips embraced my neck I felt soft, moist, warmth. She sipped slowly from within my rim, her hands wrapped firmly around my smooth slender body. It was perfect.

Her caressing lips then released themselves with a tickle as she savoured the taste of my goodness from within.

As she placed me back onto the bar my purple glowing transparency revealed her reflected image walking away into the distance. She had left me. I now felt completely empty as I sat there once again, alone on the bar.

WORD COUNT 177

THE PUBIC HAIR

No, please no, not the brightness. I’m comfy, really comfy in fact. Please don’t, you’ve lasted so long without ...I’m so comfy ... comfy, warm and content. You’ll ruin my highly enjoyable day. Please no. It’s those noises. It’s happening isn’t it? Don’t expose me to the cold. I hate you! Noooo! Put your pants back on. SLURP, SLOP, SLUSH. First time in ages, you could have trimmed me! I’ll pretend to enjoy myself in this overgrown state shall I? I hope you wash me straight away this time rather than the morning. Ouch, that hurts...why ask a woman to touch you when you do it better yourself? Oh I see... you’re enjoying this are you? Well I’m not! SLURP, SLOP, SLUSH, GUSH. Best break the ice then... hello, yes I’m fine, how are you Miss? Yes, well, at least you’re trimmed. I’M NOT. Here we go!!!!! SLUSH, GUSH, BANG, BANG, BANG. This really hurts! BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG. Oh, the excessive dirt and leaking juices, please end....BANG, BANG, BANG, please end...YEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSS......eweee... disgusting, get me away from here. Oh you’re tired are you! You’re not the only one, now please for my shower...No not the darkness...a shower...please...not the darkness...bugger!

Rain Drop

"Weee yee weeeee!" Rain Drop sings and is joined by Rain Drop and is joined by Rain Drop ad infinitum all singing "Weee yee weeeee!" Happy to be free, ecstatic in the race to be the first the best the fastest.

Billions will die a quick death as they hit hard on concrete, glass and rooftops; smack and separate, globules of life extinguished.
Millions will die a slow death as they bounce on gardens, forests and field; boing and flop, drops of nectar feed the green.
Thousands will die a slower death as they sink into canal, pond and lake; splash and stagnate, diluted losers wait, silent and still.
Hundreds will die an exhilerating death as they whisk along streams, rivers and waterfalls; collected and dragged, work aplenty as cascades erode and rush.
Tens will die a useful death as they dive into open mouths, troughs and butts; swallowed and stored, a quench for now, coffee for later.
One will die before you blink.
Can you save little Rain Drop and keep it whole?
If you can you'll hear its song, the slow song of desire for Mother Cloud.

"Weee yee weeeee!" Rain Drop sings ...



196

A shopping trolley

I’m one of the old guard, y’know. Been on active service now, for, ooh, must be twenty years. I’ve seen some things in my time, I can tell you. Not like those newfangled young ’uns that hang around, with their fancy baguette holders and posh plastic baby seats. They don’t know they’re born.

Kids today, they’re all the same. No respect for others. Can’t stand the blighters. The little ones think it’s alright to sit in my seat and give me a good kicking just because they can’t have the latest comic. The parents are no better, shoving sweets at ‘em to keep ’em quiet. Then they go and wipe their sticky hands all over me. Charming.

‘Course I don’t get out much now what with my dicky wheel, like. It was them big kids. I generally try to steer clear of ‘em. They thought it was funny, pushing me at full pelt into an aisle of tinned beans. I must’ve been doing 30 miles an hour. Is it any wonder I did some damage? Now they moan because I can’t steer straight. I’d like to see them try, piled high with BOGOFs and three for twos. Huh, youth today.