Jodie

An inanimate object -one I assume we are all familiar with- comes to life. How does it react to the world around it? Can it even do anything? What's It's name?!? short story!

That stupid human walks up to me again, for the fifty-billionth time, just staring at me and defacing my clean surface with a…a, uh, what did he call it? A marker?

The children look at him with bored glances, some only rolling their eyes and others bobbing their heads to music I cannot hear. The human man calls on a small girl with curly red hair. She lets out a dramatic sigh and trudges up to me, scowling at my sparkling white face. I want to frown back, but I have no way of doing so. She presses the marker harshly against me and forcibly draws some lines. The class sinkers and the child grins widely at them, ignoring the reprimand spouting from her elder’s lips. He picks up the square, plush, fluffy thing and rubs it across my face in a flurry of movement, and I watch as the children only laugh louder. How dare they?! I have to put up with enough as it is, math problems and numbers daily corrode my surface, why should I have to deal with a giant… smiley face… a face that cannot emote? I wish I could yell at the child, tell her about my troubles, but she is already buried in a mound of homework assigned by the vengeful teacher. I wonder what this “home” is, though. I often hear of it from the students, those who taught me to read lips. Surely they can hear each other, their mouths open and shut so rapidly I doubt those simpletons could learn to read as I have.

Oh dear, now that child is getting up again. She’s smirking at the teacher as he bends over a pile of papers he must “grade” and is not aware of her mischief. She walks up to me amidst the snickers of her kinsmen and furiously scribbles across my face.

“Take that, old man!” she mouths, and I shirk her disrespect. I forced my mind- if I have such a thing- to work out a way for me to get across to her, but the “bell” must have rung, for each child floods out the door. It takes many days, and many children filter in and out before I have my answer; and after several covert tests, I am ready to put my plan into action.

After the teacher writes down the last problem and returns to his desk, the girl once again rises to deface my surface. This time, I’m ready. I imagine that if I had facial features they would be squished together in harsh concentration as I shift the letters and numbers into my message for the girl.

“CASSANDRA,” I write, “STOP MESSING WITH YOUR TEACHER. STOP MESSING WITH ME. JUST STOP, AND BE A GOOD GIRL.” I paused for a second to think, then signed it. “-JODIE THE WHITEBOARD.”

Needless to say, I never had a problem with Cassandra again.

 

Author's Note

Well, this was written solely for a contest.... opinions would be nice.

Reviews

[Bushra Naqshbandi]

An amazing piece. Keep up the good work. God bless! :)