Writing Prompt: Choose an everyday object, what story could it tell if it had memory?
This is the story of a vitamin water that's been left out in our backyard for some weeks
I stand here, tirelessly, patiently waiting to either be topped off or drunk to fruition.
The sun rises right behind me, every morning. My innards warm-up, hugging and clenching against the inner surface of my skin.
As the day progresses, I always hear the pitter patter of my roommates coming in and out. It starts off a little something like this, in the morning, early, I hear light, quiet, cautious footsteps. The footsteps make their way to the kitchen, and soon hurriedly out the door. Then louder, more grounded footsteps roll in about a half an hour to an hour later, after which a cacophany of noises start as all my roommates make their way about their day.
Even though on the warm days, my inner boil, I prefer those to the chillier days because at least one of my roommates will join me. I can finally have some company. I can hear them talking. Never to me, but it's better that way, because they can't hear me, at least not yet.
The day progresses, some are quieter than others, but the nights are always loud. In the wee hours of the night, well past when the sun has set, a couple of people give me some company while they have a drag or two of a cig. It is a vice of mine, to inhale the smoke of those fresh cigarettes. I sometimes peer over to look my owner in the eyes. I wonder if you recognize me. Or has he completely forgotten the feeling I gave him or quenching his dry thirst those cigarettes gave him? The thin, dainty cylinders, what is he see in them anyway?
Those drags take precious minutes of his life away, whereas a swig from me can give him those precious moments back.