Writing Challenge - Lost Item

Discussion in 'THREAD ARCHIVES' started by ElBell, Feb 25, 2015.

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  1. In this challenge, the goal is to write about an item such as keys, a hat, a phone, or another inanimate object being lost somewhere. They can be lost anywhere and have been lost any time ago for any reason, but there is a catch to this challenge:

    You're trying to write this from the perspective of the item itself, and not the person who lost the item.

    So, in a way, this also doubles as a challenge to personify and give character to an object or item that otherwise would have little to no 'life'. Hopefully this makes sense, and I hope any of you who give this challenge a try have fun with it! ^^
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  2. Sitting back, hiding from her, a game I enjoy, she curses and huffs watching her feet leave her room. Lost again she growls. Little does she know I'm just playing a game. She knows I don't like mornings. She hates why I go missing. She had knocked me off her bed side table again. She should be late. She shouldn't keep dropping me every where. It hurts. She shrugs and picks me up like its no big deal well let her look. Getting a bit dusty under here, maybe she'll come back and check under her bed like she should have done. Maybe I hid too well.

    Hearing her shout for a lift, hurt a little, shes leaving without me? She clearly doesnt care, she gives out to me all the time, she yells at me for the cars mistake. I am staying lost, I hope she never finds me. Some people need responsibility. Some respect would be nice. She used to just throw me every where. Or hang me upside down. The nicest place is her bag. Its roomie and I never fall and the dog never slobbers all over me.

    Speaking of the dog. Oh crap his coming. Being in his mouth was gross, he chewed on me and licked my face, sometimes he even covers me in dirt. Sniffing under my owners bed, he smells me, scratches to get me. He shoves his wet nose closer and finally picks me up.

    Going on another adventure, what part of the garden are you going take me to. He carries me to more than likely my final resting place. Suddenly I fall out of his mouth and I'm left in the garden. Maybe she will find me. Some day.

    (Hope I did that right lol)
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  3. My word, what a lot of junk. I'm mortified for the lot of them. Frayed edges, bent corners, patches of discoloration... They've been so obviously used, the poor dears. I mean, really, what a disgrace. I'd never be caught dead looking half so shabby. Then again, priceless heirlooms such as myself demand a certain level of care and attention. It is because we, by no fault of our own, are held to an elevated standard, and thereby subject to the most acute scrutiny. The pressure, I imagine, would be too great for some, but I, having held this prominent position for some time, bear it rather well, if you'll pardon me for saying. As such, no one would dare treat me with disrespect. So well-cared for am I, for instance, that to shield me from the awful glare of the sun - my surfaces are so delicate, you know - I was given my own private, dust-repellent receptacle. Even the small cracks between the flaps of the lid were sealed off. Such devotion I am shown, such love.

    That I now find myself surrounded by what I can only classify as detritus is, to be frank, shocking. To my left is a snobbish collection of floor lamps, each more standoffish than the last. They're comparing the shapes of their shades, no doubt. All lamps love to do this, though I can't imagine why. But this group is old and haggard. They may have been de rigueur in a previous era, but today they are sallow and rusty. On a table to my right are nearly a dozen dog-eared, spine-creased paperbacks, all chattering about intimate affairs and clandestine romances. Inappropriate subjects for any book, in my opinion. None, I'm positive, are first editions. Surrounding the books are plastic knickknacks and scuffed toys. There are boxes of unpolished silverware; on the lawn is a dirt-crusted lawnmower. And need I mention the clothes? The number of garments is staggering, but it is nothing compared to the sheer quantity of - can you believe it? - polyester.

    When the sofa sectionals in front of me (suspiciously stained, I might add) begin to yell vulgarities at passersby, my fears are confirmed: I am unfathomably lost.

    "Idiots," says a stout teapot next to me. Mercifully, if I cannot wake up from this nightmare, then at least I have found an ally, but when I look over I am horrified. There is an enormous crack slicing through her porcelain surface. And the chip on her spout is a challenge to ignore.

    "Indeed," I say.

    "They probably won't sell," the teapot continues. "I probably won't either." She laughs a rattling, wheezy laugh. "The family wants ten dollars for me, which is ridiculous. Can't even serve tea no more, and I'm no where near pretty enough to be - whaddaya call it? - ornamental."

    She is right, of course, but I say nothing.

    "Someone'll like you, though," says the teapot. "There's lots of them la-di-da types around here who'd like a handsome, tall teapot like you. Nice flowers, by the way."

    "I beg your pardon, madame, but I am no teapot. I am an antique chocolate pot. And I am most certainly not for sale."

    "Call yourself whatever you like, big boy. But that price sticker on your rump says otherwise. For forty dollars someone'll snatch you up even if you were a dirty dishwater pot."

    She must be stark raving mad. My family would never sell me, much less at a tacky yard sale... But - what is this? The teapot is right! I have been priced at forty dollars! Who approved this? When was the appraisal? Even a corner pawnbroker would have valued my worth in the triple digits. This is absolute nonsense. I cannot be sold. I have been with the Davignons for generations, and it is with the Davignons I must stay. My place can be no where else. A misunderstanding, that's what this is. Nora, the old bird, was probably touch overzealous with the pricing gun. She would never purposely get rid of me. I am as much a Davignon as she is!

    Yes, this is all a mistake. I am not for sale. I have been lost. That's all there is to it. I'm sure someone is looking for me. Nora is probably worried sick. How funny it'll be when she realizes I've been out in the open this whole time. And what a relief it'll be when she's rescued me from this hell.

    "Look alive, Hot Chocolate," says the teapot suddenly. "I think you've got a buyer."

    I see money exchange hands.

    Oh, eff.

    Hahaha! Does an object that thinks it's lost count? Thanks again, @ElBell for the fun writing challenge! Keep 'em coming! XD
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