Write a story from the point-of-view of an ordinary object (for example, a rug).

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Fountain Pen was back again. He was wearing a striped shirt this time, with the usual pen in his pocket. He gave me a firm push and I felt the bell kick in behind me. Apparently, Fountain Pen is still biting his nails. Disgusting habit. The rough edges are always so unpleasant feeling. The door opened and Creamy Voice, my current resident, embraced Fountain Pen and told him to come inside. She closed the door gently behind him. Out on the street, I watched the cars pass. Then there was the woman with the pink jog bra and the Great Dane who ran by about the same time every day. The sunlight around me faded, and the moths started pestering the porch light, who complained constantly about the nocturnal attention. I don’t mind so much — the moths kind of tickle, and when you get poked all day, it makes for a nice change of pace.

All of the sudden, the door frame gave a sickening lurch backward as the door swung violently inward. Creamy Voice was not so creamy, yelling at the top of her lungs at Fountain Pen to get out, out, out. He stumbled out onto the doorstep and Creamy Voice slammed the door so hard that I was seeing double for a while afterwards. I watched two striped shirts storm back to two black sedans where two identically shod feet kicked two hapless tires, who whimpered audibly at the abuse.

The striped shirts got in their sedans and peeled out of the driveway. After that, things got pretty quiet.

Three days later, Fountain Pen showed up again. He was wearing the nice black shirt this time — the one he wears when he knows he’s in trouble, I think because Creamy Voice gave it to him back when it was snowing a lot and the door got stuck with an itchy wreath for a month or so. And this time, Fountain Pen was carrying a dozen roses. He pushed me almost timidly this time, and his fingers were sweaty, so I knew he still wasn’t sure about his reception. The nails were now down to the quick. The porch light starting making bets with the peephole on how the conversation would go. I felt the door open, and Creamy Voice was there.

“What do you want?”

Fountain Pen held up the flowers.

“Can we talk? Please. Look, I know you’re pissed. And I want to talk through it, and set things right. Give me ten minutes, and then you can kick me out. Okay?”

Creamy Voice stood back from the door. She still hadn’t taken the flowers.

“Come on in. You’ve got ten minutes.” She didn’t sound as mad.

An hour later, Fountain Pen had not emerged, so we assumed all was well. And Peephole owed Porch Light a play by play of the next Red Sox game, which it could just make out on the kitchen TV at the end of the entry hall…