Voices Class (9 March)

Exercise Two: Think of five objects and use them as motif.

- Create a first person narrative
- 5 Objects
- These objects in a room
- Do these objects belong to the character or does the character need to work out what the objects are.
- Sensory Image
- Monologue / Vernacular
- Motif


Below is what I wrote:

The metal L shaped handle felt cold in my touch as I stood before the grey metal locker. My heart pounded in my chest and I needed a moment to steady my breathing. Slowly, turning the handle, its stiffness taking a moment to give under my gentle pulling did the door finally pop open and swing with a smooth motion under my grasp. Darkness filled the inner space and I couldn't see anything in the void that lay beyond.

I turned to look back around the room. Rows and rows of similar lockers filled each of the structured lines with benches laying in between giving off rows and rows of uniformity. Hanging lights evenly spaced glared down into my eyes and I noticed the one closest to me hung right above my head.

I moved back placing the cardboard box down on the wooden bench behind and allowing light to seep into the darkness. Its contents illuminated I reached into its contents emerging with the worn leather jacket. He wore this nearly every day. I pulled the leather up and took a deep breath of his sent filling my body with him. Tears began to fall but I wiped them away as I placed the jacket next to the box.

Carefully I reached in again, this time a worn wooden frame came out, placed inside was a photo of us taken the night we met under that stupid picture of red forest in our long forgotten bar. The warmth of the wood felt comfortable in my hand, reminding me of his touch sliding over my fingers. I had to let go and give it rest in the waiting box.

The smiley badge sat on the top shelf. It smooth surface felt cold in my fingers till I felt the sharp jab. He never did close the pin unless he was putting it on, and he never went on duty with out it. So why was it here? I shook my head, a question for another time.

The rest I picked and placed in the box. Each item pulling another tear from me, reminding me of our life together that had been cut short.

Finally empty, making one final sweep of the content I found the letter tucked in back. Sealed and unopened. Addressed to me. Yellow from age but definitely with his poor penmanship on the cover. My fingers trembled as I touched it. Slowly reaching up, the ripping on the paper tearing at my insides. Hands shacking I pulled the paper out, unfolding it till I stared at the writing

"My love if you are reading this then it means that I have died." Words that shook me, collapsing my legs and pulling me against those grey vacant lockers.