Demise Begets Demise

It's first shot at movella, they said feed backs flow here, thus I am going to publish one of my average short stories, I am craving for feed backs. Hope the story cuts mustard, and I am not an author whose books a re darkness that sliver the fabric called Light in a glade. The story is about an IRON BOX whose hasty actions lead to its realization, that an action that primarily paints itself by primarily brushing upon the window-sill called violence will never triumph eternally. It's an heart-felt story that according to me is a bit poorly structured. You valuable feed backs will help me negate the weeds that lurk and clasp their tentacles around the raw-forest that is my story. With your help I envision myself, sowing a garden that beckons people, where roses permeate it. NOTE: i FORGOT TO ADD CAPS LOCK IN ORDER TO PERSONIFY THE OBJECTS STUDDED IN THE BOOK. PLZ BEAR WITH ME.


1. Demise begets Demise

Cooed at by others and looked down by peers, the iron box lived a life of a pauper. Under the cover of the closet, it latent potent unexposed. Appliances more attractive mocked it, taunting it by flaunting their abundant use to humans, their talks an endless seam of junk. But, the most abhorrent of them all were the things that the humans garbed themselves with. DRESSES they called them, they were things to be loathed, of course, what with intricate textures that really were a sight to behold. They sauntered past the iron box their bodies glistening with pride. Over the bodies they flowed, day and night they rowed. Their arguments within themselves were as useless as the price tag they bore upon them. “oh! I’ll make her dance scintillating”, “She wears me at constant intervals, I think I have been weaved with a golden spoon”, and then all of them would start fighting and they would tumble down the closet and would stay that way until their masters came down and gasped.  “Ignorance power these stupid humans, they allude us to their powers by man-handling us but tears seep down their cheeks if one of us broke. Wailing for us are they?, bah, they are selfishness epitomized, baseless idiots whose endless ranting is worse than these clothes. Alas, they are my masters and they power me, huh, only if I was able to socket myself and turn on that thing, then my murderous rage would blaze them and disintegrate them, huh, now I am dreaming”, thus thought the iron box. As an old saying goes “ Every dog has its day”. I am alluding you to this proverb in particular cause it was held true by the sequences in the story of this iron box that followed. One fine day, the iron box’s master picked it up from under the closet and lay it on the bed, put its hand through a hole and turned on the thing and left the room. Power coursed through the Iron box, embedding its veins with electricity, it bellowed in rage, beckoning anyone who dared to come near it, it really was a force to reckon with. Its master re-entered the room a talkative dress in hand. The incandescent glow that emanated from the iron box’s belly scared the dress, but it kept its esteem high. The heat spread underneath the iron box, galled by the dress’s presence it snarled, it’s belly charred by the heat but it’s warmth soothed it,  kindled the rage it had nurtured against the clothes. It had ironed before, but it was only to enhance these idiots. Instead of bowing in reverence they  had made him a pawn that could be laughed at without the fear foe repent that lurks around every mockery . Anger seethed and the heat intensified incensed by the ignorance it had faced, the iron box was going to take a vengeance, it was going to usurp the clothes from the commodities throne, this was a solitary coupe for the betterment of appliances.  The Languished thing called Iron box will raise from Dirt. Its master apparently a lady, had a cupid look painted across her face, a smile etched and benignity ruled sovereign, but she still hailed from a species that deigned his, so she had to suffer. She spread the dress across the bed and was about to pick the iron box when its sole appliance enemy THE CELL PHONE rang, THE CELL PHONE was its enemy because it got all the attention while the iron box drooled beneath a closet. The attention towards cell phones were dwindling, but it still had a wavering quality that attracted people for NO PARTICULAR REASON. Well, enough of banter, the time for action had come. The girl picked up the cell phone and her vibrant smile transmogrified into something terrible. Was it a scream, was it a screech, was the girl in some danger,  the iron box panicked. Vengeance later, thought the iron box ready for retreat. The iron box was about to cool off the excess heat that had crusted due to its fury when the girl started laughing. The iron box retained the heat and started fretting over its benevolence, no, not benevolence, what word do they use, whatever, it fretted over its inclination to help even if the victim was its NEMESIS. It made a mental note to  practice sorcery when it had free time. Now onto revenge. The iron box channeled all its energy to its front tip. It almost groaned, but confined itself to eternal weeping, because if it let out any signs of assault the cloth would panic. Not that it could do anything, but the iron box wanted to give the cloth the most treacherous treatment ever hazarded. But the iron box needed time to do so, hence, it first had to dispose off the girl, and it hatched a plan as unconspicious as possible.

The girl in a frenzy of talk, played with her hand. The iron box targeted her nails and projected forth all its willingness in reaching it. The girl’s nail was well manicured and it was bathed in red nail polish. The rays it sent would only attract things that had no control over itself and the girl was in no mood to dominate her hand so she let it rock freely. The iron box lessened the heat in order to lure the hand in. The girl’s finger neared the iron box’s front tip. As her flesh made contact with the front-tip, it unleashed all its latent heat save for its mid-underbelly. The heat caught the flesh and it penetrated into the layers of the flesh. The girl let out a larynx-gripping screech(the Iron box is always precise about its description and I respect its emotions) and ran out of the room profanity spewing out like water. The IRON BOX chuckled internally. The moment of truth had come the moment that would rent it eternal joy. Suffice to say that the IRON BOX was already angry at the cloth, but it was intensified when the TALKATIVE CLOTH laughed at The IRON BOX’s lesser enemy, its master. In a fit of fiery ferocity the IRON BOX transferred most of its heat to the cloth, but the cloth laughed. The IRON BOX watched appalled, then an old saying reverberated against the walls of it fabric guides(IRON BOX’s brain). Its Coal- Bellied grandpa had once said “when you can’t break a deadlock by just looking at it, conceive it by pieces”. It hadn’t understood what he had said, but now  the answer dawned upon him. As was the wont of IRON BOXES it chose to follow the saw. The answer was that, if the heat couldn’t pierce the fabric, then pierce the fabric’s soul, it’s base had to be destroyed, that is the threads had to be penetrated one-by-one, it was a slow process but it did not allow any portals of escape for the cloth. Nervousness drained out and raw anger gripped it when the first thread was cut. The CLOTH let out a soul-ripping screech, only heard by a-biotic components. THE CLOSET was IRON BOX’s only brother, though they were not from the same kindred clan of metals. They still shared a bonding that was boundless and whenever they talked, energy flowed into them like water gushing down a water fall. THE CLOSET barred the key hole thus shutting out the only ray of light entering CLOTHES. Its hollow stomach churned as the clothes bumped against each other in anguish. Lining after lining got cut, slowly the CLOTH’s heart was razed and it died. The girl entered the room and she let out another scream, her eyes dilated, her cheeks pink, tears welled up in her eyes, slowly it slid down her cheeks, she wiped and ran out of the room her breath coming out in hurried gasps. She started blaming her own ignorance. The IRON BOX expected to feel empowered, it had succeeded in a conquest against the CLOTHES. But nothing of that sort happened, it saw the shredded carcass of the DRESS, a remembrance of what something could do when blinded by desire, a statuette, a martyr that sacrificed itself to quell the desire of another being. Something swirled inside the iron box, it had to die, its life would be brush-stroked by nightmares of a demise sketched by it. The servant-maid entered the, picked up the IRON BOX, it let out smoke that materialized, diffused with air, it wisped into existence, wafted through the air above the IRON BOX and into the servant maid’s eyes, the servant maid stumbled back, one hand groping and caressing darkness and in a moment that aided human instinct she took her other hand to her eyes and dropped the IRON BOX in the process. The IRON BOX fell, the exhilaration of falling clasped it, air was sucked out of it, it fell to the ground, its metallic head made contact with the marble flooring, the mosaic groaned, a rift was formed between the IRON BOX’s upper body and its belly, and its heart spilled out, charring the surface below. In the events that led to its demise Justice had resurfaced, it had found solace in death, death gave it a joy infused with pain, it laughed its heart out until darkness converged upon it. The true meaning of the wise old saws had finally alighted upon its waning mind.

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