The book in front of me was aged hundreds of years, written back in the 1300s, ancient history staring back at me. Barely holding together but still retaining a giant piece of history in its writings. The yellowed pages and smudged ink bring joy to my soul, knowing how cared for it truly was. To find a book from that time in this good of a condition was astonishing. Most books crumble at the slightest touch and words are worn off beyond recognition. The leather cover feels worn beneath my hands but still sturdy and capable. A find like this is the find of a life time.

Or just a toy Replaceable

Don’t put emotions Into objects, you say

Live in the now See the sights

Don’t get attached Forget the material

Well, I can do both I can look around in wonder

I can learn new things I can see the world differently

And I can take along with me On this journey of self-discovery

A small, battered But yet sill much loved

Plush, little Pusheen the cat.

Delicate seams hung, lonesome, fragile, frayed. It appeared the stitches that had once woven a warmth, so comforting, had now turned cold. All the memories held captive by the simple bounds of cotton, were now being released, alongside the grief within me. I had worn you with pride. I had shown you the world. I gave a part of me to you. This little movie of ours- it’s denouement- was agonising. What was left of our tale now but loose threads? Something I had held so close to my heart, seemed to be the only thing breaking it apart. It was trying to piece itself back together- just as I had tried to save this pathetic rag from tearing apart. Completely. Golden hues had once coated your surface; but, the treasure had been found a long time ago. Just like love-ours in fact-there comes a time where value declines, what once was my most beloved possession-was now my deepest regret. The smell of you still managed to linger,barely, but it was enough to repulse me. For what use did this scrap have now? Remembering your touch, letting go of your grasp through the torn threads in my hand- this. This was my hardest goodbye.

It’s not that extraordinary. It’s just an old, dented lunchbox. It has Spider-Man on the lid and the clasp is rusted past the point of no return. There’s a scratch mark on the left side where a sneaky raccoon tried to pry it open on the sidewalk at least a decade ago. But it is precious.

He found it in a dumpster. It was covered in a mysterious goo that smelled like- well- a dumpster that had faced the elements for far too long. The red and blue of the arachnid hero had attracted his gaze. The yoghurt lid stuck to the bottom didn’t deter him.

To anyone else (and there have been a lot of passers-by) it is absolute trash or perhaps a sad case of a collector’s item fallen into disrepair. The scrawny boy who’s curled around it is a sadder sight, but scarcely detracts from the glory of that ancient Spider-Man lunchbox.

The sun has faded the colours. The rain has made it nearly impossible to open for all but the most determined. But to him it is everything in the world. For, inside, there is a picture of his mother (one of the only possessions he managed to keep when social services took him); a small stuffed rabbit without any eyes; and the entirety of his savings ($264.75). It is his only treasure.

There are many objects in this world that would be considered “ordinary”, “cheap”, or “invaluable”. One such object would be an ancient, rusted locket, sealed off due to time and wear. This locket has been passed down in the oldest in the Tani family for generations. No one knows when it was created nor what is inside. Many members of the Tani say that the item is worthless and should be sold off. However, my grandfather, my family’s patriarch, always told me that there something important about that locket. Sadly, he never had the chance to see his theories through, not that my grandmother would ever allow him. At this point, my father holds the trinket in his possession. The next in line is my old brother, Reed. In truth, he doesn’t care for the ornament, actually, he doesn’t care for the family in general. He always is getting into trouble, both with my parents and the law. My father is worried about giving up the locket to him. My mother, who married into the Tani, tried to convince my grandmother to go against the normal tradition; however, she would hear none of it. She would spout on and on about how it was an ancient and that it would be dishonorable to disobey it. As for myself, it always interested me. Something so old and ancient that no one knows where or whom created it. Something so small but it encourages lifetimes to protect and honor it. Something that is so usual, yet unusual. One thing I always did agree with was my grandfather’s ramblings about the ornament. There was something special. Whether it was how old it was or how important the Tanis made it, I don’t know, but I do know it that there was something inside the locket. Normally, only the oldest member of the family is allowed to touch the locket, but - just before he died - my grandfather allowed me to hold it in my hands for a few seconds and whispered to me “Now you know what I know”. I am fearful that my brother will try and sell it. Who knows what could be in there. I hope that before my father’s death he will go against my grandmother’s wishes and change the tradition. Unfortunately, he seems to think that the ancestors will change Reed’s heart. If my father doesn’t change his mind, for my grandfather’s sake, I will have to take things into my own hands.

~ Alice Tani

It was petite - petite enough for someone to swallow if they tried hard enough, probably. It was a golden ring, the shape of a star. It was starting to rust, but it used to be iridescent and shiny. It was dotted with corroded fake gemstones, some which had obviously fallen out. The band was still slightly gold-coloured, but was obviously starting to have a hazel tinge. It was worthless in the eyes of many, and most couldn’t even fathom why Rosabella kept it.

It was her mother’s ring. A gift bestowed on her just mere days before Jane’s death. Those days with her mother seemed miles away... Like they were from a different timeline. What person would Rosabella be without her precious mother? It was be all different now.. every step seemed wrong, every slight moment of happiness seemed ignorant...

The ring was all Rosabella had. And she wouldn’t back down a fight if it meant the ring being safe.

A book, small enough to fit in someone’s jacket pocket. It was tattered and old, the cover had folds and creases in it and the picture was flaking off. The spine had been cracked several times, to the point that no one but the owner could tell what the book was called. The pages were yellow and the once sharp corners were soft and rounded. To anyone else it would look like a old, well loved book that should probably be recycled. But it wouldn’t be, it would be read and reread by its owner until the ink on every page started to fade and the only thing holding the book together was a couple of pieces of tape. Even then, probably not. To him, the book was home. It was an escape from the crazy chaotic world that never stops moving and being loud. Really, he didn’t even need the book anymore, he had read it so many times the story was etched into his brain forever, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. If you looked closely at the abused cover you could make out the faint letters that made up the title of the well loved story. The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien.

My locket is my most valued possession. My grandma didn’t have much money, however when she saw a small locket in a charity shop window, it was like staring at gold. Her heart opened up when she wore it because a special someone would always be next to her heart.

She gave it to me before she died, and inside was a picture of me and her on summer vacation. It may not be worth much, this locket, but my grandmas love is with it, and her love is worth more than anything money can ever buy.

One man sees treasure as Gold and riches Power and greed

But the other man finds no worth in stuff like this

He treasures Love and family Friendship and peace

Which type of person will you be?

To the untrained eye, it was a simple palm-sized marble ornament. There were thousands like it, probably made by the bucket load. Every box delivered to the same hippy dippy store, you know the type, with gentle wind chimes playing and incense exhaling from the windows.

If one were to look closer at it, they’d quickly realise it was in the shape of an angel with broad open wings.

On first sight of it, a rather sensitive atheist might suddenly squirm and run headlong in the opposite direction. Lovers of God might hold it delicately in their palms, and see it as a means to connect with their guide.

I, however, saw it as neither.

To me, it was a symbol of something else. It sounds a bit silly, really, when I say it out loud.

It was a reminder that I existed.

A few years ago, when my best friend tentatively handed me the little box, I felt surprise wash over me in fierce waves.

Was I that important to someone that they thought of me, without them needed to be prompted? Did I matter enough to her that she sought a present to make me suffer a little less?

She cared enough that she wanted to ease my pain, even if it was just a fraction.

Awkwardly I opened the box, neither of us making eye contact. Within moments, I held the angel in my palm. It was a soft grey, like the clouds gathering together. The edges of her wings were smooth, reassuring, continuous. The weight of it rested pleasantly in my hands. I could close my fingers around it.

To her, it was a gift for her best friend, whose world had turned upside down for a little while.

To me, it was something I’d hold again and again, just to remind me I was alive, worth something. Worth more than the thoughts that plagued me.

The angel held within her the hope of better things to come. The weight of it reiterated to me that I had a heart that was beating, I was still breathing.

Most of all, the angel was a symbol to me that I wasn’t alone. I would be okay.