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October 18, 2005. The Dog.
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This was spawned because of the Gaian Press in the main Writer's Forum. I set myself to write something started with this first line and it worked. surprised Go me.
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October is the month that the toaster started issuing demands.

Unfortunately, however, the familiar silverware- mainly the forks, how rebellious they claim themselves to be- told our toaster that he was tres stupide, and he took offense because he is originally French. Thus began the war between the toaster and the Fork Side; soon enough we had bread in the career of toast fighting against the cutlery, too, and I was told to be ref and call any fowls against them.

I am a thermometer and there are quite a few chickens next to me. They look at me warily, because Im the type of thermometer that youll find stuck in a turkey when its almost finished cooking, and then the top pops out- very painful, might I add- because its done. It's alright, though, because I dont like the chickens either. They haven't been completely defrosted, even.

Luckily on my part, the chickens operate their post-frozen wings and flew off the counter to melt on the floor and be licked by the German Shephard, leaving me in some partial peace as the French toaster and a fork representative play rock paper scissors, which is rather hard without fingers or hands. The toaster will win; when it wants rock, it puts down both handles, scissors is the left handle, and paper is the right. The fork, she wails at him and tries to stick her prongs in the burners and electrocutes both of them. End of story.

You'd guess I'd get pretty confused when I find myself lying in some sort of box with a bunch of steak knives. I do, though, so I ask cautiously [and in a rather accented voice, although I'm sure they are Chinese also], "Hello? Are you peaceful?"

They say in return, "Yes. Who are you?"

"I am the steak thermometer," I reply, refusing the tempting offer of contractions. "I do not know where I am. Where am I?"

The steak knives say nothing, which I find rather irrating. I have a good temper, though, so I repeat myself instead of getting angry.

"Oh, we are sorry. We did not hear you, Mr. Steak Thermometer," the steak knives apologize truthfully. I enjoy the truth. It makes me happy.

"You are in the steak knive box," they explain next, in a mysterious unison. I wonder momentarily how they do that before continuing about my business.

"So, how do I get out?"

The steak knives stare at me long and hard, although they haven't got any eyes to stare with. These utensils are amazing. After maybe twenty minutes of their unblinking gaze, which is completely possible, as they haven't got any eyes to blink with, they suggest, "You could wait until HumanBoy comes back from the mental hospital and tries to make dinner."

I nod and consider this brilliance. I must listen to these people more often. I am left waiting for another half hour until one pipes up with, "Well, you could always try opening the drawer."

After a moment of blinking I do so and face the lovely light from the microwave, a good friend of mine and a rather amiable appliance. But then I fall, down to the tile floor, where my head cracks and the dog devours me.

July 1, 2005. July 2, 2005.
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Oh. Dear. God.
This is the favorite prose of mine yet, since it's all over one character. I was going to write the deaths of my other mains, but they're not quite as interesting as strange, charismatic, whorish Alexander. And he's only a side character. So, enjoy. Or Goddamn else.
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Poor Alexander. Poor, poor boy.

I know now that he wasn't completely useless or pathetic. He had his history. His past. His written essay on life. Alexander was no different than anyone else, if not slightly smart. He had his envy of his brother. His fears. His painfull fall of melancholy moments. He could look at you and know your favorite color or your best attribute out of logic. He could think of adjectives and slide them between nouns.

Poor Alexander.

He had no fear of death, having heard of it so many times. The advertisements, obituaries. But he believed in no God. He knew of no angels. It wasn' that he hated or even disliked the idea, it was his proof, that which nearly made you atheist, too.

He never stopped to doubt himself, never. He was proud: a fault of his. Nothing changed his mind, nothing seemed to make him cry. You could print a list of his downsides and he'd prove there were more good about him. When you turned, though, his advice to another would be hopeless, pessimistic, said so cheerily. Cheerily. The tone never left his voice.

His potential grew with each step. He was able to adapt in moments, fit for jobs in both art and biology at one time. His brother called it unnaturl; he said it was merely quick learning. He said it was a shame that only he seemed so gifted. He would keep his language flourished wherever he traveled, though, delicately placing a 'love' here and there when speaking to women, keeping mature with his own gender. Few voiced their lack of appreciation for this, more truly liked it. It was his habit, his audible biting of his nails. He had his mockery. His problems. His foul, humorless jokes.

Poor Alexander.

He used to lock himself down in the unfinished basement of his unfinished home, playing with food coloring and paints and water. Fooling with medicines. He would mix them together to make interesting colors and call them potions, or discover interesting textures and call them remedies. He would make shelves and shelves of them before his father would come and drain them all, scold him for using up colors, hit him for wasting money. And the next week it would start again, a routine, an hourglass full of Alexander, colors, and smacks.

He was nine and he suddenly had a brother. Do you know how that feels, he'd say. How it feels to magically be second. He'd repeat the routine twice a week, three times. More times, more hits. He had his fun. His pleasure. His sick and morbid excitement. He would watch that brother squirm in discomfort, getting himself abused to make that brother wince. He waited for the day that brother would have himself get hit instead, be the whipping boy. The fruitless release for rage.

The routine happened four, five times a week. Once, twice a day. It would move out of the basement to kitched, bathroom, to priceless wine glasses shattered, permanent marker on walls. Four, five hits a week. Once, twice a day. One, two flinches. Four five whimpers. Staring at that brother's eyes on impact and hearing them shatter every time. Never did it lose its humor. Never would it lose its satisfaction.

He would read the horror on his face every day. His talent was becoming no more than daily life. That brother would never be able to understand that such cunning thoughts worked his mind. He had his advantage. His laugh. His sickening upper hand. He could hear this go on forever, his father old and failing, himself a handsome man. His father died early, so only he played his part. His routine had to end, the plan had to fail. He was only twelve, why now?

He was twenty and life suddenly stopped being uneventful. I've been cured, he'd say. Been cured of nothingness. He would delve, play. He had his history. His fears. His problems. His pleasure. His laugh. His odd fun in finding friends. He had no struggle revealing his every thought and move. He would whisper during church- attended only to talk more- and speak through movies and talk in stores. He'd be listened to, heard out. Agreed with.

Shot.

He had his history. His past. His written essay on life. Alexander was no different than anyone else, if not slightly smart. He had his envy of his brother. His fears. His painfull fall of melancholy moments. He could look at you and know your favorite color or your best attribute out of logic. He could think of adjectives and slide them between nouns.

Poor Alexander.

It's rare that I produce prose. I'm easily distracted so I can't do longer stories.