I sit here. Day after day, I squat in my spot within these pale yellow-painted cinderblock walls. My only contact with the outside world comes from a solitary window. I crouch too far away to see anything through the casement but rusty roofs and blue sky on nice days. A warm shaft of sunlight stretches out from the window and slants its way over the computer table, cutting triangles into the old orange carpet. It never touches me. I never feel the golden warmth although I long for it.
I sit here, attached to the wall through my umbilical cord, bound in place as I hunger for energy. I long for freedom, but to pull the plug would sever my power. I would die, and I’d rather my four walled prison than not exist at all.
I sit here, awaiting my destiny. Soon, she will come. She’ll run her smooth, cool hands across me before she’ll slip them into my drawers to see if I’m fully loaded. Her slender thigh will brush against me as she leans into me. Then she’ll push my buttons, and I’ll respond to her touch. I’ll ask her how much, and as I heat up, my insides will groan in effort to perform for her. With a flash of light and energy, I’ll spew out my warm progeny. She’ll gather this newly born bundle within her arms, and then she’ll leave me alone—once again.
I sit here. Day after day I squat in my spot—a prisoner as I await her return.
Copyright Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 1995
Occasionally, my writing gets me into trouble. When I took my Creative Writing class on a walking tour through the campus, I assigned the students the task of becoming an inanimate object and telling that object’s story. For my piece, I selected the copy machine in the teacher’s workroom across the hall from my classroom. I had a love/hate relationship with this machine. When I finished my piece, I taped a copy of it onto the copier, never dreaming it would offend anyone! Oh, well . . .