The Scoop

I miss writing fiction, so therefore, it's time for a refresher:

"Write a story from the perspective of a spoon in a dishwasher."

- Source: writing.com

So here goes...

*     *     *

It's cold over here and yet, I am waiting. Nobody ever told me before that this was part of the job description.

My vision is currently half obscured by the heavy porcelain plate that is stacked just right beside the spot where I am nestled beside other fellow dinner cutlery.  In any case, I can't see much. It's pretty dark.

Dinner has been over since hours ago. But I guess someone forgot to put the dishwasher on. So we've been sitting idle here for what feels like centuries. Then again, we spend more time waiting than we do being used. It's just one of those facts of life, I suppose.

My partner in crime, the gorgeously prickly Fork, told me that the dishwasher functions pretty much like a carwash. When I asked her what a car was, she shrugged and said she didn't really know. It's a wonder how she knew what a carwash is then.

I hear some movement from the direction of the front door of the dishwasher. I wonder if it's about to be started soon. I'm looking forward to being washed squeaky clean.

Human voices. Then, a turning of knobs and a pressing of buttons. The dishwasher comes to life.

But then, something feels terribly wrong. The machine begins to shake - more violently than I remember it normally does. I hear the clatter of plates clashing against one another. The other forks and spoons are shivering. The glasses and mugs are shrieking, vibrating, shattering...

I feel the rise of chaos, the cries of helplessness, the sting of heat... and then, a sudden silence and deep darkness, thicker than before.

I try to call out, but then, my voice is not heard. Although I cannot normally move myself, I try to inch forward towards whatever it is that is around me. I feel myself falling. Somewhere. Into something.

Splat.

It is soft. I descend upon its surface unharmed. I look about me. All I see is pink.

A hand reaches into the pink atmosphere. I am lifted from the wreckage and a pile of pink stuff is scooped up with me.

I hear laughter.

Before I even realise it, I am face to face with a mouth - one that's opening and beckoning me in towards its dark, bottomless abyss.

In goes the pink stuff, and saliva smooths my curvy surface.

I stop to wonder how did I ever get here. What happened to the dishwasher?

I feel alone. I miss my precious companion, the Fork.

Again I am dunked into the pink pile. My face is numb. Teeth clench themselves around me.

I am being used. I should be happy. But I am not.

Where are all my friends from the dishwasher?

Swoosh. A wave of cold water flushes out my thoughts.

I am in a cupboard. Or a drawer. I cannot decide which.

I try to rise from where I am. My body clinks against another piece of silverware..

Fork! Dear Fork! It is good to see you.

Oh Spoon! Where have you been?

I'm not sure, but I though we were in the dishwasher? 

Oh we are... we are...

Water sploshes all around. My confused thoughts meld together with the rhythmic rinsing and comforting warmth.

I sigh contentedly.

What a life.