Fork

 

Life is difficult, even as a fork.

 

My name is Steven. I am a fork. Stainless steel, born of a lump of metal and some extra ingredients. I’m not purebred steel, and I’m not proud of it, so I’d prefer if you didn’t ask.

I have lived a full, but rather unrewarding life. Imagine being born with a purpose, and your whole life is filling out that purpose. No time to develop a personality, skills or any such mumbo jumbo. (Well, I did. But that’s beside the point).

Well, that’s what I would be saying if I hadn’t met a certain guy. A guy name James Woods. This is how I came to be thinking like this now.

Sitting (I say sitting, I wasn’t doing much sitting) in the emergency room wasn’t exactly fun. Being impaled into someone’s chest hurts. I’m sure I chipped a point or something against those bones. I suppose I can’t complain, he was the one with my sharp (even though I do say so myself) body piercing his chest.

James was a troubled child, obviously. He threw a fork at his friend. So, it would have been nice if he’d asked me if I minded, but then, nobody ever thanks us after we are stuck into their horrendous, cavernous, slimy, disease ridden mouths. It makes me shudder at the memory.
I also remember, at a time before being here in the emergence room, I was stuck in a ceiling. Some kind of decoration, and amusement to kids of all ages.

“Who the heck threw that fork up there?” I remember them saying. Ok, it would have been nice to hear them say ‘who the heck IS that fork up there, and does he need help getting down?’ but the past is past I suppose.

They could have offered me a seat, but no. Even at home I had to sit in a tray. Covered up by my brethren, I was almost suffocated. But James, my saviour and my destroyer, came to my ‘rescue’. He pulled me out of there, and pocketed me. From suffocation, to major dust-induced coughing attacks. Luckily, he didn’t notice. Discretion is key in the life of cutlery.

I was taken somewhere I had never seen before, and I had travelled far around the college campus. Meals were taken to teachers, and I often had the privilege to assist them in the eating of their meals. I learned a lot from their heated discussions. A lot about certain vehicles anyway. Pity I have no hands nor feet to drive. I hope to be part of a car, in my next life. Which, brutally, brings me back to my point.

James, in all honesty, was being a bit of a git. Now, as a fork, it is not right for me to judge the actions of my superiors, humans. But he is an exception. Git. An exceptional git. Of extreme proportions.

He was messing around, throwing me at one of his friends, then another. Harmless fun. Then he got a bit… overly zealous. What was originally harmless fun, and a new experience for me, turned into me being impaled in some poor lads chest. Which means I am here. In the emergency room. If my vocal organs (we forks are quite different to humans) were not embedded within the fleshy skin of this human, I would sigh.

I know my fate. I shall be taken from here, he shall bleed, I shall be discarded, and I will end up being thrown onto a dumpster till I rot. Which I won’t. Being made of metal has its disadvantages. But in a dumping ground, I will have freedom. I will move between rubbish and waste, to freedom. I shall be reformed, reborn, melted into the abyss and remade into part of a vehicle. I shall have more purpose then than I do now. I shall see more, know more. Understand more. I shall be freer than I ever knew.

 

I hear it’s quite a good life. For a fork. 

Reviews

[Jared Kardos]

Heheh. Of all the perspective objects I thought of using in a story, I'm sad to say that forks weren't in the forefront.

I like this--it kind-of jumps very sporatically which makes me uncertain to what's actually happened, but with some editing and refining this could make for a nice little flash-fic.