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Description
It is really quite depressing to be a wall calendar.

xxxxx

I remember when I was very young and still wrapped.  I was given to the Author as a gift, but one that could not be opened and used for a whole six months.  I sat there snug and secure, the shrink-wrap clinging to my every move.  It's a bit of a womb-like effect, I think.  From what I've heard the Author say of the subject anyway.  (On September 29th he wrote DELIVERY in big, red letters.  He spoke an awful lot of wombs and such around then.)  I was blank and innocent at that point, but that changed shortly.

January 1

When the new year came, I was finally unwrapped and settled on a nail driven into the wall across from Author's desk.  He didn't do it, of course...he was much too busy.  Wife did it for him while he was asleep one morning.  I was so excited and naive then that I never wondered why she didn't need to drive in a new nail.

February 5

Since I had spent all my life in an unknown cupboard, the outside world was a great marvel to me.  I could see almost all of the workings in the office, from the monthly paper clip soiree to the regular squabbling between Paper and Pen to the little lost dictionary that no one could seem to find.  The most interesting things to me, though, were the post-it notes.  They were such pathetic things.  They were written on, then lost, forgotten.  I heard them cry out in feeble little voices, but I couldn't distinguish their words.  That was more than anyone else noticed.

May 19

Soon I fell into a sense of comfort in that office.  I was showered with attention by Author--sometimes he would pore over me for almost an hour.  I would call out the day proudly, knowing that, to some, I might actually be making a difference.  It was a wonderful feeling.  I didn't realize how the other office supplies felt about me.  After all, the Pen that came to visit me quite often was an amiable sort of chap, and he seemed rather fond of our meetings.  He never said a word.

June 5

The revelation didn't come until nearly halfway into the year.  A very special occasion was coming up--a wedding that Author wanted to avoid--so Highlighter came to visit.

As she drew close to do her job, I heard her speaking quickly in a low whisper.

"You know what they say about you, don't you?  That you're boisterous and overconfident.  You have no idea about the real workings of he world, but you cover it up with fake bravado--"

She began to rub up against me, her tip misleadingly soft.  A strange, sharp scent seemed to rise up, and that made the whole thing seem that much more nightmarish and ethereal.

"--but that it doesn't really matter.  Some of the office supplies have been around for a very long time.  They say that Wall Calendars are expendable.  They live for exactly one year...and then they're thrown away and never looked at again.  We'll be rid of you yet."

She drew away with a very smug countenance, leaving me only with a bright, garish message (SICK DAY) dashed on in bright pink and a nasty sort of smell that gave me a headache.  I was left alone with the odor and her brutally honest words for the rest of the day.

July 5

In the days that followed, I reflected on my position.  I still called out the days, but more quietly, more subdued.  Obviously, my announcements were helping no one.  Instead of putting my energy into that, I tried to puzzle my way through my predicament.  No matter how I looked at it, though, there seemed to be no way out.  I had never truly thought about the glaring absence of later years among my pages, but I was forced to do so then.  I would truly be useless after my year had ended, and why on earth would Author keep me then?  Why on earth should Author keep me then..?

September 27

The other occupants of the office noticed my pensiveness.  One day, Pen asked me, "Wall Calendar, what's wrong?  You haven't been nearly so...vibrant lately."

"Pen, what will happen on January 1st?" I questioned, answering his question with one of my own.

He did not respond.

November 6

For my November picture, little children had been captured while at play in the snow.  Author decided early on that the picture was entirely too cheerful, and put little post-it notes over the faces of each of the children.

For a long time, the post-it notes would say nothing, so I spoke first.

"What's written on you?  It seems very complex..."

The post-its were silent for a moment, but then a self-elected leader took up the conversation in a breathy sigh, almost a wheezing moan, "Charactersplotdon'tforgetthelittleboysupper'satninecharactersplotdon'tforgetthelittleboysupper'satnine."

She repeated these messages over and over until I finally quieted her.  Before I could ask another question, though, she continued on, more coherent but also much sadder, "Characters.  Plot.  Don't forget the little boy.  Supper's at nine.  Don't forget...don't forget.  He's already forgotten..."

I was silent for a moment, mulling over this.  "Soon I will be forgotten as well, if that makes you feel any better," I murmured to her, feeling just a touch sorry for myself.

A tittering, shaky laugh went through the post-it notes.  "Hush now.  What nonsense are you spewing?" the leader asked me kindly.  "You're a Wall Calendar.  Pardon me for saying it, but you were never there to forget.  There was only the ink and events written on you to remember.  Those words have become memories to the Family.  You will never be a memory to the Family.  That is not your purpose."

A little shock ran through me at this, and I felt myself grow indignant.  "I've been called loud and obnoxious, and I know that I will soon be thrown away, but that doesn't mean that I am not a true being!  Do my daily announcements mean nothing?  Do I mean nothing?"

"You mean marginally more than we do, dear, and that's not much."

December 31

December came and passed with me stewing in anger nearly the entire time.  But I am very close to the end now, and I think that I've understood quite a bit more.  I am not worthless, despite what depressed post-it notes may say.  I am invaluable.  I am an entire year.  I represent every moment of it that went by.  I am a year in a series of years, but many important things happened in that year.  Many important things happened to me.

xxxxxx

May many important things happen to that plastic-wrapped infant on the shelf in my stead.

Description
It is really quite depressing to be a wall calendar.

xxxxx

I remember when I was very young and still wrapped.  I was given to the Author as a gift, but one that could not be opened and used for a whole six months.  I sat there snug and secure, the shrink-wrap clinging to my every move.  It's a bit of a womb-like effect, I think.  From what I've heard the Author say of the subject anyway.  (On September 29th he wrote DELIVERY in big, red letters.  He spoke an awful lot of wombs and such around then.)  I was blank and innocent at that point, but that changed shortly.

January 1

When the new year came, I was finally unwrapped and settled on a nail driven into the wall across from Author's desk.  He didn't do it, of course...he was much too busy.  Wife did it for him while he was asleep one morning.  I was so excited and naive then that I never wondered why she didn't need to drive in a new nail.

February 5

Since I had spent all my life in an unknown cupboard, the outside world was a great marvel to me.  I could see almost all of the workings in the office, from the monthly paper clip soiree to the regular squabbling between Paper and Pen to the little lost dictionary that no one could seem to find.  The most interesting things to me, though, were the post-it notes.  They were such pathetic things.  They were written on, then lost, forgotten.  I heard them cry out in feeble little voices, but I couldn't distinguish their words.  That was more than anyone else noticed.

May 19

Soon I fell into a sense of comfort in that office.  I was showered with attention by Author--sometimes he would pore over me for almost an hour.  I would call out the day proudly, knowing that, to some, I might actually be making a difference.  It was a wonderful feeling.  I didn't realize how the other office supplies felt about me.  After all, the Pen that came to visit me quite often was an amiable sort of chap, and he seemed rather fond of our meetings.  He never said a word.

June 5

The revelation didn't come until nearly halfway into the year.  A very special occasion was coming up--a wedding that Author wanted to avoid--so Highlighter came to visit.

As she drew close to do her job, I heard her speaking quickly in a low whisper.

"You know what they say about you, don't you?  That you're boisterous and overconfident.  You have no idea about the real workings of he world, but you cover it up with fake bravado--"

She began to rub up against me, her tip misleadingly soft.  A strange, sharp scent seemed to rise up, and that made the whole thing seem that much more nightmarish and ethereal.

"--but that it doesn't really matter.  Some of the office supplies have been around for a very long time.  They say that Wall Calendars are expendable.  They live for exactly one year...and then they're thrown away and never looked at again.  We'll be rid of you yet."

She drew away with a very smug countenance, leaving me only with a bright, garish message (SICK DAY) dashed on in bright pink and a nasty sort of smell that gave me a headache.  I was left alone with the odor and her brutally honest words for the rest of the day.

July 5

In the days that followed, I reflected on my position.  I still called out the days, but more quietly, more subdued.  Obviously, my announcements were helping no one.  Instead of putting my energy into that, I tried to puzzle my way through my predicament.  No matter how I looked at it, though, there seemed to be no way out.  I had never truly thought about the glaring absence of later years among my pages, but I was forced to do so then.  I would truly be useless after my year had ended, and why on earth would Author keep me then?  Why on earth should Author keep me then..?

September 27

The other occupants of the office noticed my pensiveness.  One day, Pen asked me, "Wall Calendar, what's wrong?  You haven't been nearly so...vibrant lately."

"Pen, what will happen on January 1st?" I questioned, answering his question with one of my own.

He did not respond.

November 6

For my November picture, little children had been captured while at play in the snow.  Author decided early on that the picture was entirely too cheerful, and put little post-it notes over the faces of each of the children.

For a long time, the post-it notes would say nothing, so I spoke first.

"What's written on you?  It seems very complex..."

The post-its were silent for a moment, but then a self-elected leader took up the conversation in a breathy sigh, almost a wheezing moan, "Charactersplotdon'tforgetthelittleboysupper'satninecharactersplotdon'tforgetthelittleboysupper'satnine."

She repeated these messages over and over until I finally quieted her.  Before I could ask another question, though, she continued on, more coherent but also much sadder, "Characters.  Plot.  Don't forget the little boy.  Supper's at nine.  Don't forget...don't forget.  He's already forgotten..."

I was silent for a moment, mulling over this.  "Soon I will be forgotten as well, if that makes you feel any better," I murmured to her, feeling just a touch sorry for myself.

A tittering, shaky laugh went through the post-it notes.  "Hush now.  What nonsense are you spewing?" the leader asked me kindly.  "You're a Wall Calendar.  Pardon me for saying it, but you were never there to forget.  There was only the ink and events written on you to remember.  Those words have become memories to the Family.  You will never be a memory to the Family.  That is not your purpose."

A little shock ran through me at this, and I felt myself grow indignant.  "I've been called loud and obnoxious, and I know that I will soon be thrown away, but that doesn't mean that I am not a true being!  Do my daily announcements mean nothing?  Do I mean nothing?"

"You mean marginally more than we do, dear, and that's not much."

December 31

December came and passed with me stewing in anger nearly the entire time.  But I am very close to the end now, and I think that I've understood quite a bit more.  I am not worthless, despite what depressed post-it notes may say.  I am invaluable.  I am an entire year.  I represent every moment of it that went by.  I am a year in a series of years, but many important things happened in that year.  Many important things happened to me.

xxxxxx

May many important things happen to that plastic-wrapped infant on the shelf in my stead.