Find the prompt here!
Fan. I'm a real big fan. One of those ones you find at a gift shop for a zoo. I have big old giraffe faces splashed across one side of me, big old cheetah bodies loping across the other. I'm reversible. I'm in a woman's trunk, her trunk of childhood treasures. It wasn't supposed to end this way. It isn't over yet. But she doesn't have a sprinkler system and I'm surrounded by all this wood and this a fire-prone part of the world, southern California. I fear for my future. I haven't got much else to do but think about the ways in which I could be over without ever being held up to a face again. I want to be held. I want some chubby little child's fingers to pry me too far open until I break. I'd rather be broken than forgotten. I suppose that might make me wind up in the recycling bin, though, if I were to be broken. Well, even that would be better than the dark. The recycling bin stuff goes someplace. And sometimes people root through the recycling before it all goes to a facility, and then second life! But then supposing second life makes me wind up in a trash bin rather than a recycling bin. Well, that would be all right, too. Trash goes someplace! And people root through trash, too. Third life! So many lives I've yet to live. But here I molder.
