Thursday, October 26, 2006

Help Thomas and His Friends!

Today I entered another writing contest on The prize for this one is $1000 for room improvement and so far, I'm winning! My story is below! If you like it, go give me a high rating at

My name is Thomas. Thomas the Train Bed. I started my journey in this room with a cute little toddler named Scotty. I felt so at home, surrounded by stuffed animals and my friend, Donald the Dresser, proudly holding his choo-choo lamp. Lolita. Scotty and his friends crawled through my tunnel, happily declaring me the best bed in the whole wide world. Those were the days. But as Scotty grew older, a horrible truth emerged. Scotty, fooling the world with his innocent smiles was, in fact, a slob of the worst proportions.

Oh why couldn't I have had an owner that would neatly dress me each morning, clothing me in fresh, clean sheets? I'd heard of other beds adorned in cozy flannel sheets for the winter. Even new traditional cotton would be a welcome relief. Instead, I'm left with a boy that leaves my old sheets in careless disarray, dirty and threadbare. My coverings are so disheveled that often my mattress is exposed, stained from years of abuse. Imagine the shame I feel as the stuffed animals look on in sympathetic disgust. Donald can't bear to look at me, embarrassed himself at his overstuffed drawers and dusty shelves, Lolita looks away, too, her lampshade now broken, falling, exposing her bare bulb, vulnerable to glares and ugly catcalls from Furby. In addition to the ubiquitous clothes and old toys that are left scattered, this room, my home, is filled with what can only be labeled as junk. My tormentor has left trash, old candy, puzzle pieces, and legos lodged in places that constantly itch and irritate my frame. He's fostered kittens, adorable and so stupid. Do I look like a litter box? Wait! Don't answer that. For sadly I realize, I must. The coup de grace came one night unexpectedly. All was dark and tranquil, when suddenly, I felt it! Like a sudden gush of lava from an erupting volcano, chunks of repulsive vomit were spewed everywhere. The smell was unbearable. Despite the painful treatments of cleansers and scouring pads, scars remain. Remnants of bile are still stained upon my inner sideboards.

Over the years Scott's brought home more and more riffraff. He mounts posters, artwork and broken Christmas lights, thoughtlessly torturing the walls with tacks. Not long ago, he brought home Doxy, a desk from the streets. That's right. She was out in a neighbor's yard with a sign that said "Take me". He painted her, attempting to disguise her as a piece of furniture that belonged in a room with Donald and me. I wanted to scream out, "How dare you bring in that filth!" And then I realized I, myself, have become no better than street furniture!

Now Scott is twelve. He often chooses to sleep on the living room couch rather than grace me with his presence. His callous preteen attitude hurts more than I can describe. I cry silently at night at what I have become. I was once adored and now I am an abomination, slowly dying in this train wreck of a room. I can just imagine Sir Topham Hatt, proclaiming in that arrogant, annoying English accent: "Thomas is a really useless engine."

This final humiliation, a photo on the internet accompanied by my story, I'm enduring for only one reason. Hope. Hope that Donald, Lolita, and I might some day find a better home. Hope that someone might teach Master Scott how to respectfully treat his furniture and his room. Hope that order will one day be restored to this battle zone of outdated décor and rubbish. In the name of The Velveteen Rabbit and all other toys and furniture that have lost the love they once had, vote for me.

Note: Doxy is on her own. Once a street desk, always a street desk.

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