For this exercise, I studied my lunch flask:
My flask stands tall and proud, silver in colour with it’s “top hat” cup removed, revealing a black screw-on top, a white central pressure plunger sitting in the middle. The outer shell is brushed metal and reflects light but doesn’t show any immediate surrounding detail.
Ribbons of darker silver stretch down the outside of it’s long outer shell. A small rim forms roughly an inch from the bottom; whether this is the design or part of the design I am unsure. The drinking cup screws onto the top, it’s sleek silver top curving at the top. No sharp or hard corners.
Sections of white light bounce along its sides catching the surrounding scenery; a hand; a bottle; an envelope; a pink note. It is as though parts of the flask stretches out towards things, as though wanting to be a part of its surroundings but not sure how to engage, how to belong.
A long, light, feathery scratch along its surface is the only war-wound, scuffed along a harsher surface, grazed in transit. The cause is unknown yet the scar is worn proudly, like a medal from a campaign in some far-flung land.
Approximately 2 inches from the top, a lip stretches around its diameter and the top part of the flask indents from here; this is where the top of the cup sits when screwed on. It is otherwise hidden from view, a secret only revealed when the cup is removed.
It looks moody. It looks like it’s got a secret to tell but will never reveal it. I wonder if it’s mood changes depending on what’s within it, what hot fluid is being stored. Perhaps a soup makes it more angry and cross, whereas tea or coffee keeps it subdued and subordinate?
Does it speak in a special secret language? Flask-speak? Did it used to whisper to the other flasks on the shelf in the store? I imagine it speaking in code, plotting attacks on the tupperware or condiments. It would assume an authoritative tone and lead the other flasks into battle, seeking supremacy over forgotten lands that could only be dreamed about ruling.