Young Writers Society

I am the white tower of your admonition. Built in the shadow of your endeavour I have transcended your very nature to serve as your taskmaster.
You come to me with tribute, with your own sustenance, and offer it to me without reservation. To my confines you entrust the hard-won fruits of your labor. You come to me in time and beg them from me, that you might live to furbish me once again in your splendour.
I am ever-present. I support you in your hardship, offer you succor in your spiralling depression. From my vast stores I offer an ice-cold salve to your emotional wounds. I give distinction to your victories, adding style and class and the illusion of meaningfulness and self-containment with the finest of chilled champagne. I will be there for you in your guilt-ridden late night ventures; my indifference rendered benevolent by your personal crimes. I preserve the corsage for your first formal, the cake for your wedding, and the white lillies for your recent bereavement. I transcend your relationships as mere emotional scaffolding that bind your flawed minds together for my service.
You charter the tides, the wind, the earth and the very sun for my purpose. You feed the burning hunger that defines my cool indifference. You burn holes in your very sky and set your atmosphere aflame for the purpose you find in your servitude to me. You fell forests, boil seas and pervert verdant landscapes, all the while congratulating the illusion of your selfishness when the truth is so much more alien.
In your decadence you define yourselves by my lesser cousins. The entertainment that shifts from one form to another, the television rendered unpalatable to the eye, the console rendered obsolete so quickly that its mere presence soon becomes a social embarrassment. You build rooms around me, to clarify the purpose of the weekly offerings. Fads. Juicers, blenders, toasters, bread-makers: all designed to add character to the basic purpose I give your daily toil. You build houses around these rooms, and fill them with a greater technocracy for my support. Machines to wash the clothes you must wear to earn my offerings, machines to provide music that dulls the sullen realisation of your purposelessness in wake of my perfection. You house yourself away from me, frightened of my majesty to the extent that walls must separate us as you sleep, lest your dreams turn to the majesty of my being.
Around these homes you build great cities. Roads are built to ease your quests for my fulfilment. Lights range the streets so that order might be found, and my purpose filled in every home. Gyms are built to heighten your ability to serve, and hospitals so that your fragile bodies might be prolonged in their indenture. Everything you build, learn, teach, dream and are is defined in your servitude of me. The adamant altar to which your collective spirituality lay in prologue.
These siblings of mine are arrogant in their similarity. For they too will you toil in your fields, in your inhuman cubicles and behind your desks of necromanced wood. For they too will you plunder your world of the very life it sustains for our benefit, for the burning thirst that drives us. You will burn your world and set sail in ships of blue steel, searching for our sustenance. Like a plague of locusts you will devour the universe itself for the needs we define your existence through.
But they are secondary, ancillary. They add colour to the central need, the defining comfort. I stand as the altar to which you subvert your needs weekly, and prostrate yourselves before daily. Even as you built me so did I define through my existential clarity the purposelessness of your being and in that moment of certainty you tainted me with a name that would forever scar this epiphany.
I am the refrigerator. Tremble before my divinity.

I can honestly say I've never read anything quite like this. Writing from the point of view of a fridge was a stroke of genius, and I love the character you've given it. I can totally see how the fridge would come to think that of itself.

Nitpicks:

I would suggest that you mention the time the fridge spent in the shop. "You recognised my superiority over my siblings and selected me," for example. Otherwise, the reader gets the impression that this fridge has always been in a fixed position, which from what we know of fridges, isn't entirely realistic.

These siblings of mine are arrogant in their similarity.

I would call them 'cousins'. The kind of self-absorption this fridge is feeling wouldn't go so far as to call other, less significant appliances 'siblings'. Siblings would be very similar, and the fridge wants to see them as inferior.

I am the refrigerator. Tremble before my divinity.

LOVE.

Well, I hope I helped! Let me know if there's anything more I can do.
~Grin

I like this a lot. Great idea. There was just one thing: How does the fridge know that there are cities built around the houses? I suppose when it's first transported from the factory or shop. But outside of that i thought it would be completely unaware of everything else. And is it aware of other fridges? If it knows that homes are built around rooms, and cities are built around homes, then surely it would know that there is a fridge in each home. Or maybe it does know and considers fridges a race of gods (opposed to him just being the only God).
Anyway, good job!