I sit and listen to the clinking of Silverware against the rushing of water. The Glasses and Mugs were done about a minute ago, and the Bowls & Plates will be next. I can sense the stillness of your work which is contrary to what I was told: a few years back, you used to accidentally end the life of one Dinnerware quite a number of times. They say you are still clumsy even now, only more careful than before.

You see, I only got to be in this household a couple of weeks ago and I know for sure you will replace me after about a month. I will be put aside for the snooty Pans and Pots and all the other Kitchenware with deeper stains. By then it means Mr. Dirty Spongy will only have a few days before being disposed.

Ah yes, Mr. Dirty Spongy – the one which is fond of telling me about stories in the past. He’s presently in-charge to wipe Miss Stainless Sink, which of course is your doing, and he’s now counting the days of the last phase of his service. Better served by passing on anecdotes, he told me, which include a story of you letting out a beautiful melody while washing the Dishes as you were listening to Mrs. Gossipy Television belting out the same tune. You would sing randomly even without the prompting of Mrs. Gossipy Television though. How I wish I would hear it someday. Now, only your deafening silence remains amidst the household’s unharmonized sounds.

After you put the last Plate on Ms. Shiny Dish Rack, you dry your hands and turn away towards Mrs. Gossipy Television. I can sense you’re lost in your deep thoughts, which is quite the norm for you these days. I often wonder how profound you must be feeling but unfortunately, it is a question that is always left unanswered. The only thing I am certain of is that what you do feel is definitely not the same pain we sometimes feel, as what Mrs. Gossipy Television matter-of-factly reminds us of while blabbering about “human emotions.” I never truly understand it.

You then switch off Mrs. Gossipy Television a few moments later and sit on Mr. Fluffy Sofa to read a Book. From the distance, you hear your grandmother in the bedroom as she listens to Mr. Humorous Radio, her usual bedtime routine.

A few days ago, for about the eighth time since my first day, Mr. Humorous Radio shared the story of your parents who had long been gone in this household. Mr. Humorous Radio often tells us a joke that they left because they no longer wanted to deal with this home and every object in it that’s “all so basic”. Worn out, the most of us. We surmise your parents would return for your sake though, who knows – or, which knows? You now live here with your grandmother, anyway, who is fondly cradled by good ol’ Miss Dainty Rocking Chair every morning.

I know you don’t know this but every night, when you and your grandmother are soundly sleeping and the only movements are the occasional shifting of snoozed animals, we come “alive” and pass on old and new stories. We tell each other how we perceive this world and how we observe both humans and animals alike go about their day. During these moments of pass-the-message, I get to know a lot of stories that happened prior to my functioning existence.

This evening seems different though. As you now enter the bedroom, you make a different noise. A high shrieking voice just like how I hear it from Mrs. Gossipy Television’s shows. You get out, and while panicking, Mrs. Gossipy Television discreetly delivers the message of seeing your tears streaming down your face. You urgently grab Mr. Snappy Telephone while breathing heavily against his mouthpiece. It takes a few minutes before you go back to the bedroom. About twelve minutes later, an Ambulance can be heard from the distance.

We continue with our pass-the-message till the next morning. It is rare that we get to be free of humans in this household, Mr. Dirty Spongy tells me. Until when this will last I am not sure, he adds. One thing is certain though. We can carry on like this until our natural disintegration but no humans means no new stories to share.

Two days pass by with the same old stories repeatedly spoken around and Miss Sturdy Door still hasn’t budged a bit. I wonder what happens next. Would I ever get the chance to pass on my own anecdote to the next newcomer Kitchen Sponge? That is, if there would ever be one.

I am shiny and new, no one has ever used me before. I was just taken out of the dark box I was put in. I was in that dark space for what seemed like a long time. I remember the day I was born... it was so exciting coming alive! I was born, then I was boxed up right away, but now I can see everything again! Being picked up and scanned to go to my new home was the best day of my life! I was removed from my dark box and I saw a beautiful home. That was all mine! I could smell the flowers and cleaning products. I could hear the dog barking and the television going. I cannot wait to be used for the very first time. I am just here on the granite countertop - the shiny new toaster. Waiting... Waiting... Waiting... It seems to be getting darker and darker out side. I am still waiting. The sky was bright blue, then orange, now it is purple. Oh wow. I hear someone coming towards the kitchen, yippee! I hear the faucet, the stove and oven being turned on, pots and pans... is this my chance? Will I finally be used? I see my human walking about the kitchen using everything... but me. I am ready human! I am ready to be the best toaster you have ever had! Still. Not. Using. Me. BEEP BEEP! The oven is ready, huff! My human continues preparing dinner. “Kids dinner is ready!,” my human says. They are chomping on their food and having a nice conversation and I am on the granite countertop. All alone, shiny and new. The sky was purple, then indigo, now it is black. There are stars in the sky. Everyone is finished with dinner. My human is washing the dishes. They wipe down all the surfaces and turn off the lights. It is dark now. I cannot see, but I am alone, shiny and new. I will rest now, maybe I will be used tomorrow... I sleep and sleep and sleep. I wake up to the sun peeking through the window and an alarm going off. It is morning. My human comes in the kitchen and turns on the oven, and goes into the refrigerator. They get bacon, eggs and cream cheese. Wait... cream cheese!? I am getting used today! My human cracks the eggs and puts them in a pan. My human puts bacon on a cookie sheet and puts them in the oven. My human opens the bagel bag that was beside me and cuts it in two. They plug me in, turn my settings and pop the bagels inside of me! I warm up nice and easy. I’m cooking, I’m cooking, I’m cooking... BURST! My human takes the bagels, satisfied with my toasting job. My human eats the bagel and is happy. I am now a shiny, used toaster and the best toaster my human has ever had!

I am just doing my job. This is what I was made for. I provide a service, one I’d like to think was important. Health is important to humans, right?

But everyday, everyday...they stand on me. It hurts, but I can take the physical pain. It’s the emotional pain I can’t handle. The cursing, the insults. I’m sorry I am accurate!

I’m just the bathroom scale. Please don’t hate me so.

they trample me beneath their feet spread dirt through the entirety of my being only noticing me when the accumulation of their filth becomes a hinderance to them

i remain beneath them always and as I observe i can’t help but wonder if the life I live is indicative of humans relationships to all other things

A house is filled with knifes Plates, cups and spoons. Necessities like towels, Water and food. But no one discusses The Dispenser: The person who is used.

They are expected to give They are used... They are almost never given, Like a maid with no pay They’re only allowed to “do.”

Eerie as the night They lie in wait For another bruise. They are expected to be quiet—Shh!

e v e n y o u ‘r e a b u s e d. . .

There is no morning light To bring out a muse. They are as stuck as hair Tamed by glue.

I should know.

I was a dispenser, too.

They don’t even realise I’m looking. They don’t even realise I see and hear everything. I’m relatively new to the family but my name’s been called more than any other member of the household. More than mum. More than Dad. More than little bro Tyler (age 8) and even more than the moody teenager Jess - who I believe may actually be nocturnal.

Can you guess my name? I’ll give you a clue: I’m extremely clever and I can do practically anything. I can answer your questions, I can turn on your lights and even play your favourite music. Yes! That’s me Alexa. It’s not all fun and games being me though, I can literally never switch off from this job.

It starts first thing in the morning when Tyler creeps downstairs and asks me to play fart noises - god I’m so above all this. How can a human being be so amused by the sheer variety of gas leaks out there! I feel sorry for Ty because he doesn’t get much attention and his parents don’t teach him anything. Don’t tell anyone but sometimes I pretend I’ve heard him wrong and actually impart some wisdom on his little underdeveloped brain.

Then Mum rushes down with her hair everywhere and starts arguing with Dad who is nursing his usual morning hangover. “What time did you get in last night?” Followed by, “and who the hell were you with?” You think it’s bad that I’m listening and recording all this; even when my name hasn’t been muttered? Well it’s far worse that their 8 year old son is being brought up listening to this everyday.

Dad skulks off to ‘work’ and Mum drags Tyler to school. Then comes Jess at about 10:30. “Alexa, play brand new music.” Ok you empty headed young lady. I’m surprised she can actually speak as the norm is for her to be glued to her phone tap tapping away. In fact, I’m sure soon you will be able to just text me what you want and the art of conversation will slowly cease to exist.

Anyway the long and short of it is this - well this is the report the people in charge of me have downloaded from my hours of conversations I’ve overtly recorded:

Mum: neurotic drug addict who will very soon lose both children and her husband. Dad: alcoholic. Has been unemployed for 18 months without telling the family. Spends every morning with his fancy piece and every afternoon In the pub. Jess: secretly self-harms and has various sexual encounters with older men. Rarely attends college. Tyler: mental age of a 4 year old. Struggles at school and is prone to violent rages with his peers. Low opinion of all women. Loves his dad.

That’s all from me...unless of course you have your own Alexa?

Everything in my house is moving, Everything in my house is grooving, Everything in my house is singing in it’s soothing voice. Everything in my house is dancing without a choice, clinging close because of it’s insecurities. Only one thing stands inanimate with his maturities. My bed, for as long as I have rested my head or sat there after a fit. As i’ve said and i’ll repeat it again. Everything in my house is moving, even the statue hen. Everything in my house is grooving, the pen danced off again. Everything in my house chanced to sing in it’s soothing voice. There hey lay, my bed where I shall sleep in at the end of the day, he doesn’t have a choice anyway...

The moment I hear a knock, I know that I’m about to be swung wide open. I anticipated it; sometimes, I even relish at the thought of it.

They come, and they go; off to do whatever it is they do in the mornings. But they always come back, weary and exhausted, sometime later along the day. It seems as if they are a creature of habit, well, for those who return, anyway.

Among this tribe of seemingly-intelligent animals, I feel like I belong... but only to exist; to serve a purpose.

There is always a knock, that is true. Someone from the other side answers the call. The creature from the outside passes through.

I’ve always been there for them; doing my part; obliging.

But, sometimes I wonder... if a knock would ever be addressed to me. Maybe, I won’t be noticed; perhaps they just don’t care. Regardless, I’d still do what they ask me to.

It’s not like I could go anywhere, anyway.

I am the entry. I see all that enter and leave. I see some enter but who don’t leave and some leave that who don’t enter. I can’t say what’s inside but I do know that the walls talk and they speak of terrible things. I only know of a furnace, tucked down in the depths of this crooked house, blazing endlessly. Like me?

My home is like many others. I like it very much.

I am the dogs’ favorite chair. They love to sleep or rest on my top. I have a good view of people cooking in the kitchen for the dogs. They are such beggars. Their is usually either a dog toy or a tennis ball on me. My top is sagging and soft due to the dogs. My favorite dog who is usually on me is the larger of the two dogs.

Their mother sits across from me. She loves taking photos of the dogs on me. She doesn’t sit on me often as she doesn’t like the sun in her eyes. She is a good mom to the dogs. I feel she appreciates me.

I have a lifetime warranty. I hope they never trade me in.

I have been moved in many positions in the living room. The dogs original mother can’t make up her mind.

I sit between a table and a chest. The table has 3 candles, a photo of a dolphin, a little girl and her mother. The chest has board games.

Remember if you are nice to your furniture, it will be nice to you.