Writing Exercise 1

Prompt: Write from the point of view of a birdcage whose occupant recently died.

This morning started off as any other morning.
He wakes up. Cleans himself. Eats food.
Then goes out for some exercise.

Or whatever he does outside of me.

While I wait for his arrival, something struck me odd, be it a bit queasy.
He hasn't come back yet, it's been a while.

I tried to ease myself with the thought of him singing his songs again.
His songs always sounded so sad, ringing through my metallic ears and enclosed walls.

Maybe that was how he felt.

No, it couldn't be, I reminded myself.

He still hasn't come home. Someone came in to collect his things.
Why, I ask myself. He is going to come back.

He has always come back.

I don't know how long it has been. Another one has come in to me, occupying within me like he did.
Like the others did.

I always ask myself why they come to reside in me, but then leave me.
It is very strange. All of them have many things in common though.
All white.
Glassy, black eyes.
They all sing a song of sadness.

And quite possibly as well, madness.

I hear him singing outside of me. They do that quite often.
They all like to sing, wether it be inside of me or not.

I think they all of beautiful voices, voices like angels the Man so fervently speaks about outside of me.

I wonder why he has never lived within me like they do?

The Man is a very bizarre one. He is all black, unlike the white drenched beings that usually visit me.
I do not understand why he is called the Man.
What is a man?
Many of them have called him that, with hushed voices and terror filled tones.
The Man makes it apparent that he will command and control each of them.
I do not think he can master me, though.
He is also very apparent of his disgust to them. And, though this has yet to be confirmed, he is also very disgusted in me.

The Man seems frightened, but angry each time he passes me.
What is there to be frightened about?
What is there to be angry for?

This is a safe place.

One day, the one in white collapsed on my floor.
He had been perfectly fine before he had started to cough and spasm erratically. Blood had been shot out through many of his openings.

His blood was very warm against my cold tile surface. Did they all have this warm, sticky, red substance within them?

Time had passed slowly as I watched him. The pool of red liquid seeped deeper into my cracks, and his body was as cold as I was.

He hasn't been moving and the smell inside of me was beginning to rank of foul odors.
Was this coming from him? Why won't he wake up and sing a song?

Someone came in and discovered him. Many of them crowded near him and carried him off somewhere outside of me.

Somewhere far away because I never saw that one ever again.

I'm beginning to see a pattern.
Another one comes in, puts his things inside of me, and sings their songs. Then suddenly they start coughing and blood is everywhere.
Some people come in to collect them and their belongings.
Another one comes in.

The monotony of this ritual was starting to anger me. Lately my frustrations of this made me very irritable and impatient.
Their songs did nothing to comfort me neither. For their songs that had once been so lovely is now aimless screeching in my ears.

My ever growing hatred of them and their songs has made me determined to show my contempt for them.
I rattled my insides as hard as I could.
It only generated momentary shock, and momentary gain.

The next time, my efforts have proved to be adequate, wanting to push myself to hurt those inside of me.
I allowed my ceiling to crumble unto him, crushing him under the rubble. I felt quite proud of myself, for there was no movement among the rocks.
Only a barely visible red puddle that managed to leak out onto some of my ceiling.
My skin.

I attempted to do the same things to the others, no matter how painful it was.

Ripping myself apart was more gratifying than suffering through day after day with these freaks!

Finally, after what I presume to be weeks, the only things standing of me were a few pillars of foundations. Rubble was everywhere, my skeletal remains evident through it.
Since my walls have gone down, I can now see the outside of my being.

What lied ahead was mortifying.

It was the real world.

Making a new thing, as the title so proudly pronounced, this series is just a bunch of writing exercises.

BTW: Sorry for weird uploading times _