Magazine, website & books written by teens since 1989

Trophy This work is considered exceptional by our editorial staff.

Sometimes, I just sit and look at them.

I look out how neatly they are arranged. All in a perfect sequence. I don’t know, I guess I want them to talk. I guess I expect them to move or do something. But they just stare back at me. They want to know why I’m looking at them. What’s so special about them.

I wonder that too…so much that it scares me.

They’re beautiful. The light from above my head hits each shiny, polished figure and bounces off. But they don’t do anything. Their meanings have long since past, and now all they do is sit here, bringing back memories that were once forgotten.

They are the voices inside my head. They talk to me through the day. They want more. They are hungry. They need company.

They drive me.

But in the end, I’m always back here. Looking at the plastic. Looking at the inanimate, glorious miniature statue standing on its own podium. I wonder why it seems to get more praise than me.

I guess I’ve grown to like the pain of realizing it didn’t amount to much in the long run. People forget about it. Then you forget about it. And then it’s just there, waiting for you to remember it. Waiting for its meaning to come back to you and swell you with self-pride.

They are like ducks in a row, and all I want to do is take a gun and shoot them… each one down the line.

Part of me thinks that would be cruel. But then I wonder, who would care? They are plastic, just sitting plastic, pretty ducks, waiting to be shattered and cut away. Besides, I’m the only one who visits them. I’m the only one that has a semblance of what each one is for. I’m the only one who cares.

I would like to stand over the shards around my feet. The ocean of plastic heads and splintered wood. Just drown in the terror of success that soon fades from importance.

But each time I picture that, I see myself, not whole, but pieced apart with them. A separated puzzle. Like my own self was murdered with the objects.
And I worry.

I worry that maybe I’m just a trophy too.



Join the Discussion


This article has 3 comments. Post your own!

Inherinerd said...
Jul. 27, 2010 at 3:08 pm:
i'm sorry i know i said i would't do any of those fluffy comments but i really found nothing wrong with this and it's very true. you really captured the idea and made it interesting enough to keep your attention. also i love the ending, it was perfect 
 
Reply to this comment Post a new comment
 
lusis said...
Jul. 24, 2010 at 3:12 pm:

Ooooh. I can relate to this so much because I'm always pressured to do well. I knew from the title that this was about trophies, but for a second there in the beginning I thought you were referring to dolls. Dolls scare me, so this had a really nice effect.

And I love what you did, taking the trophies and turning them into something to be destroyed. Then you connect it to something bigger, the narrator's own life, and the end is just perfect. I have no concrit :C

 
Reply to this comment Post a new comment
 
JesusIsMySavior777 said...
Jul. 16, 2010 at 6:55 pm:
love the ending! so perfect. its packed with feeling.
 
Reply to this comment Post a new comment
 
Site Feedback