The TV - Reflected.

Submitted into Contest #285 in response to: Write a story from the POV of a now-defunct piece of technology.... view prompt

1 comment

Fantasy Sad Speculative

The TV – Reflected.

I sat long ago at the center of the world, in all my glory. I was a force to be reckoned with, heavy, wooden, and beautiful. My body was polished weekly, leaving me shiny and smelling of pine. My front was wiped so clean everyone in the family could see themselves in my window, and my knobs were polished to capture the afternoon sun as she crept in the window, allowing me to sparkle along the walls until someone came and touched them.

The touch from one of them is what would bring me to life, and I loved to be touched; either knob would do, not leaving them much choice as I only had two: Power and Numbers.

The children would challenge me, turning my knobs harder and faster each time, trying to reach their favorite show so as not to miss the start. The older ones caressed me gently and turned my knobs ever so, as they knew exactly where they wanted to go, a nightly soap depicting hope and despair or the news.

Yet, it was the shows of the children I enjoyed the most. Although sometimes loud, the songs, the voices, and the games that came from me brought me joy. The children would lay in front of me with their feet in the air, only moving when a commercial came on. They lay with me on the plush brown carpet until the older ones summoned them to bed, but on the weekends, they lay with me until I sang my final song of the night: “O say can you see…” and lit their faces with my soft glow and a rainbow, as they lay their little faces on their pillows and under blankets.

As the last flicker of light dimmed, I would sit quietly in the corner of the room, observing their world unfold around me. They grew older and older, while the friends who once filled the space with laughter became fewer and fewer. I watched as the one who held their hand tightly slipped into an intimate moment, a kiss silhouetted against the screen that flickered ever so softly. I could feel the warmth of their connection; the way they held hands and shared whispered secrets made my circuits hum with a familiar energy. They’d watch stories unfold on my screen—tales of love, adventure, and heartache—and I was more than just a TV. I became a window to their experiences, reflecting on their hopes and dreams. Sometimes, I felt an ache when their laughter faded to memories when only the echoes of their past friendships filled the silence. But I also witnessed the beauty of resilience, the way they cherished the moments together—each kiss a reminder of what truly mattered, grounding them. As they leaned in closer during the dramatic scenes, I understood that I was more than just something for entertainment; I was a part of their story. I captured every smile, every tear, and every moment that made their journey special. Even as the world shifted around them, I remained a silent companion through their joy and sorrow, a constant reflection of their enduring bond, no longer showing them stories but capturing theirs.

I saw one dressed in the beauty of white floating through the room as if on a cloud, and soon thereafter, the final one dressed in black, teased by the older ones, that he resembled a penguin walking tightly and quickly through the house, filled with nerves. But he was much more handsome than those funny little birds that sometimes came across my screen. And just like that, they were gone.

Time went by, and the older ones got older. They polished me less and less, and I sat silently in the corner, now covered in lace with lamps and dolls atop my beautiful wooden body. Initially, I was the heart of this room, the flickering box that brought stories to life. My screen was a portal to other worlds, now adorned with golden chairs and matching curtains, filled with laughter, action, and the drama of life. But as time passed, the once-vibrant colors of my screen faded into the background. Newer, sleeker devices began to take my place: small screens that could travel anywhere, where the stories could be accessed with a mere tap. I became a relic, a piece of nostalgia, my knobs gathering dust while the world changed around me.

Once in a while, an older person glanced my way, perhaps sparking a memory of their children. They would smile softly, reminiscing about family movie nights filled with popcorn and laughter or the excitement of the latest episode of their favorite show. Those moments filled me with hope; perhaps I haven’t been forgotten.

I had always been a loyal companion, but now I sensed my time was running out.

The children, now the older ones in their home, had come back and decided I needed to be replaced. As they disconnected the cables, my heart—if I had one—felt like it was shattering. I was carried outside, where sunlight poured on my beautiful, dusty mahogany body. The world looked different from here, with an endless sky above me that was limited to my 28-inch frame before.

I was placed on the curb's edge, as close to the road as possible, waiting for what was next. As the garbage truck approached, I could feel a mixture of fear and resignation. This was it; I was being thrown away. As the large truck came to a halt, with a screech of tires and the smell of diesel, its large, automated arms reached out, grabbing me with little care. I thought this was how it ended: I was hoisted into the truck, darkness enveloping me—no dramatic end like so many that came from me on those glorious movie nights, but an end with darkness and solitude.

I do not know my final demise; will I be crushed or taken apart, but as I roll and rumble to my death, I can hear the final laughs and cries of those who once laid before me.


January 13, 2025 01:48

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1 comment

Graham Kinross
10:47 Jan 20, 2025

Ouch. This sort of tells the story I wanted in Toy Story 3 where you get the full life cycle of a product. It feels like some metaphor for a family member ungratefully abandoned when they’re no longer considered useful or even a metaphor for workers without a pension being left to fend for themselves when they can no longer work. Either way you got me thinking.

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