Read the entries for The Prowler’s Artifact Writing Contest.
Which is your favorite? Comment below!
Entry 1:
Clears throat. Well, look who’s come callin! It’s been ages since anyone’s paid old Steven here any mind. I may just be a humble rocking chair, but I’ve got stories to tell, oh yes, I do. I remember when I first came to this farmhouse, all bright-eyed and ready to rock and sway the day away. The youngfolk would climb all over me, giggling and squirming as I gently swayed back and forth. These days, I just collect dust in the corner, forgotten by ye all except the spiders who’ve made themselves at home. But I don’t mind. I may be old, but I’ve still got life in these rickety joints. Because you see, I’m not just any rocking chair, ye see, I’m a gateway to the past! That’s right. When someone plops down in my seat, I take em on a journey. One minute you’re sittin in my worn cushion, the next you’re back on the porch of Grandpappy Gabe’s farmhouse, listening to crickets on a summer night. Or maybe you’re swaying gently in the nursery, murmuring a lullaby to a wee old baby. The possibilities just go on! So don’t count old Steven out yet. I’ve got plenty of life left in me. Maybe someday, someone will rediscover my magic and give me another chance to rock ’n’ roll as Eddie Van Halen done did. Until then, I’ll be right here, watchin, waitin, and dreamin of the adventures yet to come for me and you, m’lad.
Entry 2:
You plucked me from my sheath and let me nibble my fleshy fire around your fingers. I can’t imagine our relationship any different; your lips meet my toxic kiss, as my bitter essence massages your lungs. I hated it when you stepped on me; it’s not my fault for staining your hard, polished boots and pristine leather coat. I loved watching it sway back and forth in the wind while my warmth quieted its hush. It’s a shame that my poison clings to you and many more, but I can’t help it, you and I, our symbiotic relationship forces us upon love. It pains to hear you cough and cough, you know I am dangerous, but there are hundreds, thousands of me. You can keep yourself distracted and say it’s a cold or the flu, cough me up all you want. But no one can poison your soul quite as I do.
Entry 3:
I wait. I can understand why they wouldn’t me in the line of sight. No one would want their most powerful weapon in line of sight. I am not a decoration. I am a force to be reckoned with.
My name, if I had one, would be something strong. Like Archibald Thunderstrike the Unyielding. Or Paul. Something that doesn’t apologize.
I have seen things that are beyond description. Horrors beyond one’s wildest imagination. Thanksgiving of 2021. The incident of 2019. The fifteen-day-long siege of Kevin. These events would ruin the most handy tool around, yet these nightmares are nothing but memories for me. Memories I cherish.
They think I hide under this sink. I wait. I wait for someone to drop the massivest dump in their bloodline. I am the warrior who will end the battle against the dung. I live for the battle against dung.
The teenager went to college a couple of months ago. The bathroom has been quiet for several weeks. Too long if you ask me. It’s been peaceful for too long. Peace is just the calm before Kevin has Taco Bell. And believe me, Kevin always has Taco Bell.
They gave the dog a name. It bumps into walls and leaves brown enemies all over the place. The dog has never saved this family, and I have countless times, but I don’t get a name. It’s okay, I don’t need a name. My resume speaks for itself.
I don’t need gratitude.
I need the call.
I need the urgent feel of a hand grasping my worn handle at midnight. The urgency, the stakes, the thrill. The knowledge that everything is at risk, and it’s myself and Kevin’s meaty hand holding me against the world. Against the poo.
Entry 4:
Everyone in my family is dead.
The penne, the bow tie, the linguini, ravioli, and rigatoni too. All boiled, seasoned, and scarfed down so eloquently as to not even get stuck in the crevice of a human’s tooth. This is every pasta’s dream, to be the center of attention for a mere moment until being engulfed by a warm sentience. And oh how I used to dream of the wonderous, soft sensation of traveling esophagusly. Momma spaghetti always told me to feel calm and ready when it was my turn to be spun and spooned and ate. And how ready I was, on that day many many years ago. I was done with this dreadful blue boxed uselessness. So I, and the rest of my siblings, were taken and boiled to a perfection. It was beautiful. Momma always told me to not be worried when I was taken out of the pot, the steam is natural–so I wasn’t taken aback initially when I was scooped up my brothers and sisters and flung onto the ceiling– with such a violent acceleration from someone who’d clearly not gone to therapy for their anger issues yet.
Resilience has always been my strong suit; I’d never broke even a little bit while I was being packaged. But I have been on this ceiling for SEVEN years and I’m done being as perfect as I am.
I tried to be optimistic. Surely soon I’d drop, and perhaps the baby would scarf me down secretly. Or the kitchen would be remodeled, and I’d be thrown on the floor for the dog to eat. But it never happened.
I’ve been on this ceiling so long that I’ve started to contemplate how I’d run away if I did fall. would if I roll horizontally or hop? But none of this even matters now. I’ve given up hope on you, such a mockery of humanity. It’s not like you care, but I’ve made friends with spiderwebs and dust particles up here. They’re nice but don’t talk much.
I’m still waiting for you. Decomposing away, as fast as spaghetti can decompose, with no name, no more family, no more dreams to achieve
Entry 5:
“X marks the spot,” they say with a gleam in their eye and joy in their voice. Buried in the sand on the distant shore of a forgotten island, off the coast of a country with no name, I patiently slumber. Most of my life is waiting. Waiting, hoping, praying that some brave explorer uncovers me from my painstakingly long rest. Centuries may go by before I ever see sunlight again. I was crafted ages ago, made by an ancient sailor with riches to hide. The dusty parchment and ink that makes up my body is torn and tattered, but still in condition to do my job. When I finally am discovered, everything changes. I am taken from my deep cocoon and thrust into the world of the living, where I am used to my full potential. Humans will pray to find me, thank the gods when they do, and carry me as close to their heart as they would their own child. We would travel across the open seas in search of the destiny that has been thrust upon them by me. However, when my purpose is fulfilled, I am cast away as if I didn’t just lead them to fame and fortune. At that point, I am laid back to rest in another hiding spot, waiting for the next hero to seize me from my prison, show me a glimpse of what is beyond the underground, and move me to the next forgotten hiding place. So goes the life of a buried treasure map.
Entry 6:
The first thing the soda-can remember was when the thin red film was wrapped around it.
The soda-can, now in a supermarket, does not know its surroundings, only the darkness of the case it is in.
The other cans are not being much for entertainment because they do not think in the same way this soda-can does. The soda-can now only hear what is happening
The wheels moving. Small talk between customer and cashier. The sounds of an engine billowing.
Inside: the soda can hear a barking from which it does not know the source. The soda-can is dropped into a large cold bath.
It hears kids screaming and jumping around, parents talking: catching up.
The door to this ice bath is opened and a giant hand reaches for the soda-can. The soda-can rightfully is terrified. It is now being held by this giant who in actuality is a child: ready for a sweet beverage. Then the child took the beverage to their lips and the soda can feel something it has never felt in its life: being drunk. Only comparable to when it got filled but, the opposite.
After a good amount of time the soda got used to this – it was … somewhat nice. But then the child asked their parents for something that the soda-can could not make out.
Now, fully drunk, the soda-can was put on the ground by the parent of the child. And all the soda can remembered was the giant foot barreling towards it.
