The house groaned loudly. Who wants to be a house? It thought. A dull, boring, stupid house. Not even a particularly attractive house at that. Being a house was boring. It was boring, even when there were other houses to keep it company. But now, it was alone – a lonely, boring house.

A train station was what it had always wanted to be – that would be exciting. All those people coming and going. The sound of the trains. The chug, chug as they set off on their journey to somewhere exciting – the smell of the engine, the smoke and the people. Lots and lots of smiling, happy people. But here it was, a dull, unattractive house. Even the windows and doors looked shabby. Previously, it remembered how smart and freshly painted they were, how the people living in the house would keep the house attractive with the garden in front full of flowers, the one at the back full of vegetables. Where had they all gone? Where had the other houses gone? Row upon row of houses just like it, it groaned again. The fence at the front was falling to bits. The gate lay to the side in the now unkempt garden. What a boring, boring life it was now. Who wants to be a house, it thought again. A boring house surrounded by overgrown gardens, with paint peeling off the windows and doors. A boring, boring house.

Just then, the wrecking ball smashed into the house, and within seconds, the former house was reduced to a dusty pile of rubble.

The pile of rubble groaned. Who wants to be a pile of rubble? it thought?

 John Regan, 2021.