My Pet

Most people have cats or dogs for pets. I even know somebody who has a llama for a pet, but none of them compares to my pet. Because you see, my pet is one-of-a-kind special. She is so special that she gets the garage all to herself.

During the first night, sharp pops and flashes of lightning permeate through the cardboard walls that makes up the shack of a garage. Accompanying each crescendo of lighting is a top hat rest where only the eerily silence that begs for sound exists. Billows of smoke lazily drifts through the cracked window that is not opened even a crack. Occasional chimes ring out from the shack followed promptly by curses of pain. This is where my pet exists.
During the next night, there are no more pops or lightning. The glow of the shack now dims in tune with chattering of metal and whirling of carbite. Opened boxes and packaging sprawl around the room, their contents carefully transplanted and then secured. More then one of these boxes laid on its side unable to right itself from the effects of gravity causing peanuts to layer the floor in a colorful carpet of corn starch. Being that these peanuts are lighter then air, steps to a waltz can be traced through the depressions and negative space that stroked the floor. The tempo of this waltz slowed as the moon gains height. But as the waltz comes to a finish, so does the garden of peanuts; trampled beyond recognition. This is where my pet lies.
During the final night, the lights do not dim. They do not flicker. There is no smoke hanging around the building or the chattering of metal. There is silence until lights start blinking. At first, there is the sole red led shedding its harsh shadow, but this is soon joined by an orchestra of greens and fellow reds, each blinking to their own beat. Motors whined and pistons creaked as they breathed their first breath of life. Gears grinded as they broke the static friction that ensnared their motion. This is where my pet lives.