Steel Stapler, Wooden Box, and Ceramic Jar Walk Into a Story
By: Craig Allen Heath
Tags: Creative Writing, Literally Literary, Fiction, Margaret Atwood, Writing

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The Best day of His Life

When Steel Stapler was first brought to The Desk, shiny and new from the stationery store, he was sure he’d arrived in Paradise. After filling him with a row of bright new staples, the Woman set him down near the most beautiful Wooden Box he’d ever seen.

Having waited to be purchased for many months on a shelf near the decorative desk organizers, he knew a thing or two about beauty. But here, so near he could almost touch her, was the Box of his dreams. Small and delicate, her tiny boards of cherry wood finished with dark lacquer and hand-painted blossoms, she caught his eye and he could not look away.

He wished to be cool about greeting her, wanted to act the suave gentleman and not the bumbling schoolboy, but his excitement in her presence was too great.

“Clack clack!” he said. “Pardon me, but you are so beautiful, I cannot help but introduce myself. I am Steel Stapler. May I speak with you awhile?”

Box enjoyed Stapler’s metallic approach to wooing. She had been taught to prefer the softer tones of wood and paper, having once been courted by a Cigar Box of the finest Spanish Cedar and another time by a large and learned Dictionary. But her mother, the Dowager Ceramic Jar, had raised her to be a lady, and she wouldn’t return rudeness for awkward courtesy. After all, in her heart, she found his shiny steel body fascinating. She recalled the tales she’d heard in the Great Parlor that housed The Desk, about knights in armor pledging faithful love to beautiful damsels. She wondered if he was a knight, and more, if she was a damsel.

“How do you do?” she replied with soft taps of her delicate lid, “I am Box, Wooden Box, and I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

The effect of her soft, dulcet voice told Stapler he had been right, this was Paradise. He shined a bright smile and was about to speak again, to speak his heart’s wish that Box would be his Eve, he her Adam, and together they would live in this lovely garden of Desk, when a voice, low and brittle-sounding, stopped him.

“What are you doing, daughter?” said the Dowager Jar. She stood nearby, three times as tall as Stapler, her ornate, ceramic body a molded relief of grape vines heavy with fruit, painted in regal golds and greens and blues. When she spoke, her scraping lid reminded Stapler of dry bones rubbed together.

“Clack clack!” he said, “Pardon, good Lady Jar, but I was just speaking with…”

“I did not,” Jar said, now echoing the sound of a stone coffin lid slid back to reveal the corpse within, “address you.” She had lived too long, taking care her daughter be protected against all manner of new things brought to The Desk by The Woman, to allow a metallic beast like Stapler to insinuate himself between them.

“Daughter?” Jar repeated, “What have I told you about newcomers, especially those of metal? Leave this modern monstrosity alone. Do you so soon forget what occurred with the arrival of Iron Letter Opener?”

Box shrank with disappointment. Stapler could see she would surrender to her mother’s will. The knowledge inflamed his desire to rise and fight for his love.

“Box!” He cried out, “Clack clack, Box, do not listen to her! You know, deep within, that we were meant to be, don’t you? Stay with me, and I will protect you from anything and everything that would do you harm! I swear it on my hinge!”

Box wavered, but knew she would do as her mother said. It would come to no good to be with someone so different, so hard and unbending, so harsh and loud. Her mother reminded her of Letter Opener, and the memory stabbed at her breast. For a brief second her hope had flickered, as it had that one time long ago, but two more words from the Dowager Jar blew out the tiny flame.

“Daughter? Come.”