Young Writers Society

*This is just a bit of nonsense really*

He could hear the smashing clearly through the paper thing walls of the other room. Jack had seen many of his friends lobbed across the room in the past month, and personally, he didn’t feel like being the next one. He was the last, lonely little coffee cup left in the cupboard, and he thanked his continued existence on being blocked from view by the stash of teacups that beautifully lined the outer layings of the cupboard. In early days, before the thrashings began, there existed a caste-system of cups – a teacup hierarchy if you will – where the tea cups could not even be seen anywhere near the meek coffee cups. The teacups ruled the cupboard, but in recent times, things had certainly changed.

Before, the mighty teacups had stood proudly, distinguished from the other cups, marching together. They were so ornate and beautiful; in the light, their gold-tipped rims shone and echoed years of upper-class arrogance while their painted-on designs left much to the imagination. Unlike the coffee cups that were dull and cracked with wear, the teacups never lost their majestic beauty. Many a tea party had passed, and yet they continued on their existence in flawless porcelain condition. Never a chip, never a scratch; merely unearthly perfection. And, once they were placed upon their pedestal, how even more righteous and regal they became! Yet, as they soon discovered, the mightier one becomes and the higher one climbs upon their pedestal, the longer and more painful their descent only becomes. The first teacup had finally been victim to the wrath of their masters, and as it hit the wall, it shattered into a million pieces of tiny perfection, leaving its striking porcelain shards to lie beautifully broken on the floor.

Jack was horrified. To him, the teacups had been the epitome of immortality, and as he saw them be destroyed by the hand of man, his paradoxical ideal of a utopian life had been shattered along with the teacup. He knew his time would come in mere moments. He was ugly, by any standard. When he had been created, he was left with more than one tiny imperfection; his handle did not fully connect with the rest of the cup, his razor-sharp rim had never felt the warm lips of man and, now that he thought about it, he had never been used at all. At first, he was happy to have been given to his family, but after they had placed him in that cupboard more than ten years ago, he knew that he was unwanted. But why? He had spent those past ten years pondering this very question. Was it because his cakey brown colouring flaked off every time he was picked up? Was it because his handle was just a little too small? Or maybe, he had some unknown little hole in his soul that let all life liquids ooze out of him instead of staying soundly in the cup. Whatever the reason, he realized now that it didn’t matter anymore.

As he was thinking, another teacup was thrown. Then another, and another and another, until there was only Jack and one lonely teacup left with him in the cupboard. He tried to talk to this teacup, but the teacup refused. Even at the end, the teacup still believed itself to be superior to Jack. It stuck up its nose at him, and moved closer to the front of the cupboard. Jack’s heart broke; the teacup would rather bring itself closer to its death than bring itself closer to a coffee cup.

Suddenly, the hand came in and swooped up the last teacup, and in a second, Jack heard the vociferous crash. This is it, Jack thought. Out of the light, a giant, hairy hand reached into the cupboard. Jack squinted his eyes shut, not wanted to see himself be hurled against the wall. The sweaty hand closed itself around him, and he couldn’t breathe. He waited for his last moments to come, for that deafening shatter to ring throughout the kitchen . . . but it never came. Suddenly, he became hot, and for brief moment he opened his eyes. He was sitting on the counter, still alive. And, much to his surprise, he was being used for tea!