I am working on a story about a girl (ok ok, it's sooo autobiographical. Pshh.). The story about the girl is pieced together by the viewpoints of different inanimate objects in her day-to-day life. Below is the first object. I am aware that it needs many revisions, at this point I am just trying to get my basic idea on paper. Give me feedback, I am not sure if I pull it off well.
(story edited 1:18am 5/26/10)
She pushed me, slowly at first, then with more exerted force. I rolled on the faded, speckled red carpet past the rows of shelves, each calling to us- their bringer of completion, their deliverance. She is my motivation, the source of my loyalty to my work. I am the bearer of all their prodigal sons. Except instead of receiving a feast, we get soundless thanks in the form of the wayward child welcomed back into the straight, stiff, but ever immortal fold. We leave them behind, empty-handed, to dock, to await the next load of pilgrims returning to the native land.
The mood tonight was different. Instead of the usual soft handling and respectful placement, her eyes seemed dulled, blind, as if she were completely inside herself. Her breathing was steady and her hands moved with heavy precision as she gathered the books. Hair fell to the front of her forehead when she bent down to arrange the materials I held. Her manner was uninspired. Her touch to the dear friends we had yet to return was usually akin to that of a mother tucking in her child to bed; tonight it was comparable to a game of Tetris.
I was confused as we continued rolling past the shelves. I ignored their silent greetings and focused on her. She began to put the books in their rightful places, her motions halting and expressionless. Her arm stopped just short of the shelf and the book in her hand didn’t grab hold of the surface adequately. She didn’t notice and let go. The book swished and its hardcover slapped the ground at her feet. She didn’t stoop to pick it up, I am not sure she even noticed the fall. The moment was packed with intensity, every soldier on that shelf stared gapingly at the girl.
I wanted to yell at her, to shake her shoulders, to slap the apathy off her sullen face so that she could get back into the work-mode in which she usually thrived. Instead, I stood by silently, enduring the helplessness one feels when one’s loved one refuses to communicate. I begin to feel impatient at her seeming inability to move. She stared at the shelf in front of her but her face registered nothing. The book lay still at her feet.
I had just determined to attempt to make some sort of action to break the tension and retrieve the poor fallen soul, which I knew was impossible for me but it’s the effort that counts, when I suddenly felt rain. Warm, slowly dancing drops began to splash on my back. I looked down at myself and was surprised to see the wetness upon creamy metal. When I looked back up at the girl, I almost expected the books all around us to shed similar rain, all at once invisible to her and ceaseless to me. The drops of water jumped from her eyes and ran off her chin, falling to hit my surface before absorbing into nothingness.
I was frozen. Second by second passed as a snail, I watched almost voyeuristically as she slowly sank to her knees, eyes open and downcast, tears continuing their tide into her lap. Her hands lay limply on the floor beside her. I wanted to touch her fingers, to let her know she was not alone. My body was stiff, however, and I stayed where I was with cold acceptance. Her jeans soon had dark splotches all over the inside of her thighs where she sat Indian-style. The tears kept flowing.
Also, is it emo? I want emotion, but not cheesy emo. Thank you.