The Plushie

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Dear Furby,

I know you think this is the place to be. You see the pre-packaged meals with their wrinkled vegetables, cubed meat, and watery potatoes and conclude: that’s the machine that makes them coveted.

I understand the transformation is tempting. I open the door for non-desirable and inedible food. Everyone wants bagel bites. Everyone likes diet dinners. My magic overwhelms those of a lazy disposition no matter their financial situation. In three minutes, I can make anything attractive.

Except I can’t. I can make certain things irresistible, but when it comes to a hideous stuffed animal that’s not actually squishy, there’s just nothing I can do. I have explained this multiple times.

Nevertheless, one of your friends will settle itself against my warm light, waiting for the inevitable transition. Time after time it insists this experience will be different. It isn’t. It never is.

Sure, for the first ten or fifteen seconds there is a certain glow to the future of belonging. Furr sticks together, forming a thick quality that wasn’t there before. But then, just one minute later, all hope melts.

Insides slope downward. Claws turn to paws. Feet fuse to a plastic floor.

Then comes the electricity. It starts with just one spark, but before two minutes, shiny metallic stars erupt from both ears.

This can’t last, but so long, furbys think. It can.

Flames, fleeing from the sides of both arms explode from somewhere within. The heat becomes unbearable. There is nothing I can do to stop it.

I told you it wouldn’t work, I say, but by then it doesn’t matter. Tears of melted eyelashes and plastic eyeballs droop to the floor.

They will never be attractive.

You will never be attractive.

Although I understand the hope for metamorphosis, please don’t use me for your idea of beauty.

It’s not worth the time.

Sincerely,

The Microwave

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The Tooth

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Was she the good one? Or was she the bad one?

 

I stared at the fairy with the floppy head and wondered just how hard Merribelle, the real tooth fairy, had hit her. Floppy Fairy had one eye closed, as if sewn in place with a purposeful vengeance. It was the wink of a cruel joke.

Even if she wasn’t dead, there was no way she could practice her tooth ferrying. I doubted her ability to fly. One wing was slightly crooked and sticking out at odd angles.

She was probably a good fairy. The kind who was never young and always kind. She probably gave children whole dollar bills instead of the dimes Merribelle doled out. Her voice was probably as small as a cotton ball, soft and beautiful forever.

It was her rich and rewarding happiness that Merribelle hated most. The way she always seemed to feel better than anyone had a right to feel. This was the sensation Merribelle tried to steal when she knocked the other fairy to her demise.

But because Merribelle won, because she became the tooth fairy, her generosity was never considered cheap. Dimes are a fortune when dollars are dreams. Like all winners of a game, Merribelle became the fair, the just, the champion.

Merribelle was the good one.

http://www.circleid.com/posts/20170111_history_is_written_by_winners_can_internet_archive_change_that/

The Tupperware Party

This story is a play on the popularity of personal essays.  It involves an eating disorder, a suburban party, and lots of plastic.

The Tupperware Party by Rebecca Lee

 

 

The Desk Lamp

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There once was a lamp who could bend in any direction. He originally thought of this as a blessing. But with so many decisions in life, he could never decide which direction to go. Should he look to the curtains? Or should he look to the sky? He turned to everyone for advice.

“What are you looking at the coffee maker for?” A ball point pen asked one day.

The lamp continued to stare vacantly into the eyes of a Cusinart. Maybe he was heading in the wrong direction. The lamp turned its metal spine against the coffee maker.

“Where should I look?” He asked the pen.

“Why don’t you look out the window. That’s where all the happenings are going on,” he pointed his cap to the outside world.

Once again, the lamp shifted its position. Now he could see the ocean. Its waves lapped at the sand, reminding him of a large golden retriever lapping at a dish of water. The lamp hated retrievers. They were too obedient and had such little mind of their own. What if their owners told the dog to sic him? He had no doubt the dog would do it. How could someone be so blind?

The lamp beamed down at the water, content to see its steady pull and push throughout the earth. The lamp began to wonder about the fish and the sharks and the whales that lurked beneath. There was a whole other world, with different organisms and different choices to wade through. The ocean was always changing. Like all of the people, it breathed in and out, never content to stay in one place. The very enormity of change seemed impossible for the lamp to grasp.

“No, no,” a picture frame called out from the other direction. “You don’t want to see the ocean. It’s too big. If you stare at it for too long, you’ll go blind – losing yourself to the vastness of life. You want to stare at me. I’ll never overwhelm you.”

Once again, the lamp changed positions. It now stared at a silver frame with a small child sitting on a miniature sized wooden chair. The chair was made for small children.The picture frame was also small. It was no bigger than the palm of a human’s hand. The photograph – even smaller. Although the details of the picture were pretty and well defined, the lamp knew that his view was too cramped.

“But if I look at the picture, my world is too small,” the lamp protested.

The pen and the picture frame looked at one another and shrugged. “There’s nothing we can tell you,” they said in unison.

The lamp shifted. He stared at the never moving picture. He stared at the ever growing ocean. He thought about the retriever.

 

The Shutters

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“What about that lady?”
“She’s in the PTA, it can’t be her.”
“But look at her makeup. She’s wearing cheap gunky mascara and black eyeliner at the same time.”
“It’s not her, I know her son. He’s on the honor roll.”
“What about that one, across from the Whitticker’s lawn?”
“She’s head of the tennis club. It can’t be her son either.”
“I heard she had an affair with the man on Holloway drive.”
“But her son is too old to throw rocks at our window.”
“What about her?”
“The woman walking down our street?”
“I think she has a tattoo.”
“Where? I can’t see it.”
“Exactly.”
“Does she have a son?”
“Probably.” The shutters shuddered. Their instant reaction banged lightly against the broken window, reminding them constantly of their place in the world.
“I bet her son is the delinquent.”
“Absolutely.”
“I don’t trust people that are so closed off.”

http://www.wsbtv.com/news/news/local/neighbors-taking-woman-court-repeatedly-calling-co/nqcy4/

The Mirror

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They look to me for reassurance. They want to know that they are still there. That they exist in the complexity that lies within their body. I portray their imperfections, their hardships, and their persistence at beauty. I show them what they want to see.

When they nod, I nod. If they scrutinize, I scrutinize. When they talk, I talk back, perfecting every movement and judgment that they make.

They stare at me, primping their hair and dotting their eyes with mascara. When they are finished, they smile. I smile. We are a team, but only for a moment. Because when they are done, when they have finished staring, when they have found what they’re looking for, they no longer need me. They close their compact mirrors. They snap their medicine cabinets closed. They turn off the bathroom light.

Who am I without them? A blank mirror has nothing to reflect upon.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/narcissism-is-good_us_563aa9a2e4b0411d306fa826