[I was bored. And there was my old gluestick looking out my window. So this existed.]
He looked out at the world, watching the rain slowly slide down the window pane, drop by drop... by drop... by drop.
Evening was descending on the outside world, and the ever so faint, faraway rumble of thunder enlightened the entire land of its presence.
It was quiet now- no rain; no birds; no revving of engines nor rumbling of large, lumbering trucks. There was just... peace. In other words, the calm before the storm.
He felt his drawn-on moustache bristle in the air, or perhaps it was just his imagination; there was no breeze, nor was his moustache genuine. Yes, it was most likely his imagination.
The clouds, for no sky was visible, were a strange blue-grey; pale, yet vibrant, dull, yet striking. Simply put, it was an odd combination of contrasts. How could the clouds be pale yet vibrant, one may ask. He did not know- it just was so.
Yet even with all those... contradictions... it all blended together perfectly. What was that word? Ah, yes: harmoniously.
Standing at a distance were two skinny pine trees; dark, brooding silhouettes against the pale background. Closer to the window was the bold figure of the hedge, flowers of great bindweed illuminated with whatever light there was, glowing eerily against the black of the hedge.
Behind him, he could hear the scratching of a pen on paper. Oddly enough, the sound was quite soothing to his, well, whatever he had in place of those human hearing organs called ears.
Gradually, after staring for quite some time out of the window, his thoughts drifted back to his early days. Ah, yes, the good old days. He remembered how, after he had awoken for the first time in the factory, he had gazed down at his pristine, cylindrical body: the black trousers, the green belt, the white shirt that bore his name in bold, black lettering (and he had been able to read it), the white cap - all of it, he drank in, remembering it, savoring it.
Then, he had been put in a German truck (for his place of creation had been Germany), along with thousands of his kind. For the most of his journey, he had slept, and when he next awoke, found himself to be on some sort of ship, staring at the blue water of the English Channel through a small porthole. At long last, they approached the English shore and he was placed in a truck... again. But finally, after a long, exhausting journey, he was unloaded, along with some of his comrades, and wheeled into the back of a store named 'The Works'.
From then on, his life had changed. One day, he was in the 'spare' section of the back room, and the next, he was hanging from a stick (and a cold, hard, metal one, nonetheless), priced at £2.99 and weighing forty-three grams. The next thing he knew, he was held in the hand of a girl and purchased.
How dare they treat him like some sort of lifeless object! It was simply vexatious, not to mention degrading and extremely mortifying.
Mulling over his past life, he let out a silent sigh. The world was so big, and he, so small, had yet to discover many things... or so he wished. There was no autonomy for him, no independence, no free will. His only purpose was to hold things together. Even so, he had traveled far. From Germany to Belgium, although he had not been awake at that part of the journey, across the English Channel, through Dover and past Canterbury, to the very heart of London, then up to Birmingham and, at last, [name omitted *beep*], where he resided on the desk of a [name omitted *beep*] pupil.
Overhead, thunder growled, and the clouds seemed to sink lower and lower as they became heavier and heavier, darker and darker, suiting his pensive mood. The storm was nearly upon him.
Taking a different turn to his thoughts, he thought about the future. His life was soon to be over; for he had fulfilled his purpose. Now, his glue was dried up and, for the most part, gone, not to mention the numerous tears and patches in his clothing. It was only a matter of a few days, and then he was to be discarded.
Thrown away, useless, rubbish, disposed of - and all those other words or phrases used for such situations, he mused. Perhaps even retired.
There were two ways to go about it. If one imagined half a glass of water, one would most certainly conclude that it was either half-full or half-empty. Likewise, one could imagine his... end... as retirement, or even destiny, for he had fulfilled his duty as a glue stick. Or, one could imagine it as being useless, rubbish, for no one ever was fond of an empty glue stick.
He found himself suddenly gazing out of the window, the clouds finally having opened up and unleashed their burdensome load. Ah, the storm had arrived. The glue stick pondered for a bit, asking himself a question. What better way to spend his last days, perhaps even his final hours, than to be watching the graceful arcs of rain descending from the heavens; the wind dancing wildly and beautifully, swaying the trees and enticing the leaves into waving at it swirling by; to hear the soothing, calming pattern of raindrops against the roof and window pane; to hear the freeing, rushing, roar of the wind?
He smiled to himself. Ah, yes: there was never a luckier glue stick in the world than he.
And so, the glue stick looked out at the wide world, his conscience finally at peace, watching the rain slowly slide down the window pane, drop by drop... by drop... by drop...
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I apologise for any spacing issues. I wrote this on Google Docs so... yeah.
