Rooming with Creativity

Like Toy Story, but with books.

Rooming with Creativity


So many sporadic ideas entered the room every week that the windows had become confused as to the content (or context) of which they had the honour of listening to. These windows, as well as the walls, the chairs, the door and even the solitary kettle , had been listening to the events take place in the creative space ever since it had been built in the last 1940’s. It has to be noted that the kettle had been there considerably less time, as too one of the windows after and incident with adolescence and footballs, baring these two the room was filled with knowledge, ideas, creativity and youthful exuberance of more than fifty years experience. In fact it would be a fair assumption tot make that if these walls, windows (baring one), doors and chairs could write, they would come up with much better stories or poems than you or I could ever expel. The carpet too had been there since the beginning, but was no longer involved in the discussions that took place after hours in this room. This was largely due to a bout of depression that had taken hold after years of both metaphorically and literally being walked all over.


“Not a bad class today” started the door, shortly after eight in the evening of a particularly warm summer day.

“I have to agree. That boy Winthrop, despite his daft appearance, reminds me of a young Steinbeck. I’m sure you’ll agree” The elder of the two windows interjected, aiming his remark at a poster which had been there a decade or so.

“Well having been created post Steinbeck, I can’t honestly answer, although my face is plasters with a copy of his “Of Mice and Men”, and I did particularly enjoy Winthrop’s style today”

The carpet remained silent as usual.

“Not enough poetry for my likeing.” Chirped up a 2003 copy of James Fenton’s An Introduction to English Poetry, who sat on a mahogany book shelf along with a few other classics which often added to the discussion when deemed appropriate.

“Shut up, there’s never enough poetry for you, but I suppose you never had a chance of enjoying prose with your bias insides” interjected the wall, who seemed emotionally moved, if not quite physically.

“Yes yes, but Winthrop, potential I say. Probably be left staring a at a poster with his book on it before too long don’t you think?” started the door before adding (somewhat under his breath) “hopefully he’ll replace that grump chap in the corner” which was aimed at a poster depicting Collected Poems of Ted Hughes…by Ted Hughes.

“I heard that” the Hughes poster said, sparking to life

“You were supposed to, miserably git, life’s always bleak in your eyes” replied the door.

“Now, now you two” the younger of the windows started “lets keep things civil, we don’t want things to get two heated like last time do we?”


            The window was referring to an incident a few months previously when all three posters had got in such a row about the whether or not J.K.Rowlings Harry Potter series could ever really be counted as a literary classic due to the neglected structure and voice, that they unhinged the blu-tac form themselves and were left in a crumpled heap on the floor. Hughes had become slightly damaged in the process and had never forgiven Steinbeck. To make things seem less bizarre to the human occupants of the room, the elder of the two windows had to unlock itself and open slightly, with the door leaving itself a jar creating a believable draft effect which could have left the room in the state is was found the next morning. All of the room occupants were surprised that the carpet had not made some sort of protest. The wall and the some of the chairs had come to the conclusion that it had some how managed to commit fabricacide without them noticing and had in fact been dead for several years. They had no proof either way.


            “I wish they would unplug me after use” The kettle started suddenly, taking the younger of the two windows by surprise and causing it to shudder. “I feel all weird when they don’t it tickles and I feel fuzzy. But I do agree with you, Winthrop did seem particularly on form today, very apt description of the farm, and I rally sympathised with the tractor, the way they left it with a puncture for weeks”

“Yeah, and the way he described the weather vain, felt like I really connected with him, all alone up there, unmaintained, must be a pretty cold existence. I guess sometimes we don’t really think how good we have it in here” added the younger window.

“Uhhuh” came a unanimous mutter of agreement for the others.

“Felt that Mannigly’s bit was rather dull” proposed the door

“Ah but that happens once you’ve been published, start focusing too much on the human aspect of the story and leave out the surroundings, ‘forget the atmosphere and you forget the story itself’ that’s what I always say” replied the wise old window


            Manningly was the class tutor and had several books already under his belt. The room had fallen out with im after he spilt his coffee on the wall, and neglected to clear it up. He was in fact a rather good writer, although none of them would admit now, and took great enjoyment from belittling his work on a daily basis. It was therefore no surprise to the rest of them when the wall decided to add his two pence worth;

“Yeh, stupid Mannigly, too much sex in his work now, doesn’t even bother to describe the furniture they’re doing it on anymore. Big shot arsehole!”


            The room let out a gasp at the abhorrent use of an expletive in the wall’s words, this was due to the notion that using foul and vulgar speech showed a limited vocabulary. Although it was now accepted from the wall after the aforementioned coffee incident. It would still always cause a momentary silence.

“What did you think of that wee bonnie lass Philip’s work?” The source of the voice was a well thumbed copy of Irvine Welsh’s Trainspotting. He had taken the time to learn the local dialect of the nation north of England and used as much of as he could when he spoke, the others found this rather irritating at time, since they knew that it had be printed in Oxford and had never been to Scotland.

“Didn’t think much of it at all really, too wordy. Fine to describe something buy I don’t need to know every nook and cranny, vulgar the way she created the image of the ringlets on top of the table. Can you ask him his opinion?” This was directed towards the kettle.


            An inaudible muttering occurred in the corner of the room between the kettle and the table on which it was placed. It was well known that the table didn’t like to speak out loud, although it used to be impossible to stop it. The table had developed an uncontrollable creek when it spoke, and so now insisted on communicating in whisper via the kettle.


            “He says, that he is glad that he was given a cloth to hide his dignity, and thinks that it was unjust of Phillip’s to describe the poor thing in such inedited substance. Humiliating he said, if any of her chairs were to hear it.” (Chairs of course normally never see the top of a table and so are wholly unaware that something so large could contain fault.)

“Phooowr, I loved it, wish I could have been placed on her shinny surface for a bit!” a boisterous edition of J.D.Saliger’s  Catcher in the Rye. He was well known for shouting obscene remarks which were largely ignored by the rest of the group.

“Shut it Salinger!” Shouted Steinbeck.

“Or what Becky? Look at you with you’re wanna be attitude, not even a book, just a picture of a book, I’m a book, you are a FAKE!”

“WHAT?!” shouted Steinbeck, furious as Salinger’s outburst

“Woah…calm down” interrupted the wall “I can feel you are getting warm Steinbeck, we don’t want you ending in another heap do we? As for you Salinger, every pictures says a thousand words, so I would think before you speak again.” The wall hoped that, despite containing over sixty thousand words, Salinger would not realise, and would remain quiet for the rest of the evening.

The End

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