Fire

Author's Note: I did my personal metaphor piece that is describing how I am like a fire.


I am a raging fire.

It takes the smallest spark to start me
And I'm hard to control once I'm going.
You might want to give me space when I'm burning
Because I leave a path of destruction.
Sometimes I cannot be contained,
Especially when the spark that started me
Is more dangerous than an earthquake.
It's hard to cool me down,
And it might take a lot to put me out,
But once I've stopped consuming everything in my way,
And the wild spark is gone,
I am completely harmless.
Except for the burning tang of smoke I leave behind.

What am I?

Author’s Note: I am doing my creative piece from the point of view of an inanimate object. I can’t say what it is yet, because when people read the actual story, I want them to guess what it is. If you’re really stuck, I’ll tell at the end of the piece.


Why me? Are my only thoughts for most of my existence. Why would anyone want to be me? I can never see what is going on because I’m always on the ground. I can’t move, I can’t talk, and I don’t have any features that are anywhere near humans. I’m always cold, unless it’s a hot day or if I’m washed with warm water. But the worst thing about being me is: lunchtime. Lunchtime at this school is the worst time of the day. There are children everywhere, stepping on me, not caring what I think. But how would they know what I feel? They’ve never been me before, and they never will. The kids are dropping crumbs and bits of disgusting lunch food on me. They never pick any of the stuff up. They spill juice and milk all over me, never bothering to clean it up. They slide their tables around when they get up, and leave scuff and scratch marks all over me. The food is kicked around, only to hit me on the other side of the large eating area. All I can hear are the pounding noises of kids feet stomping on me, and the little tinks and thumps and crashes of things landing on me. The little kids who spill juice all over me don’t clean it up, and other kids come along and slip, falling on me, hurting me. I hate this job. From the moment I was installed in this school, I knew that I would hate it. But I can’t help it. After all, I am a cafeteria floor.

Matched by Ally Condie

Cassia has only known the ways of the Society because they decide everything for you: what your job is, when you die, and who you marry. Cassia is Matched with the obvious person for her, but makes her own decision that defies the Society. How will she make things right, for her and the Society?