Below is the transcript for Season 1, Episode 115 of Freely Written, a podcast by author Susan Quilty:
Welcome to Freely Written where a simple prompt leads to a little unplanned fiction.
[Light piano music]
Hi, friends! I’m Susan Quilty and today’s prompt is Reusable Straws.
When I was young, bendy straws were my favorite kind of drinking straw. Partially for the practicality of angling the straw but mostly for the way the short accordion section pulled apart with satisfying little pops.
As I grew up, I moved away from using straws and so have a lot of people who realize the waste of single-use plastic and the potential danger to seabirds, turtles, dolphins, and other animals.
At restaurants, I only use a straw when I forget to say I don’t need one and it’s already in my glass. At home, I occasionally use stainless steel straws, which are pretty nice. I also have a reusable silicone straw that folds into a little metal box. It’s a fun idea in theory, though it has sat unused on my desk since turning up in my Christmas stocking five months ago.
Until today! Today, my reusable straw has the lofty purpose of being a prompt for a podcast story. Where will a story about a reusable straw go? I have no idea. And that’s pretty much the point of this podcast.
If you’re new to Freely Written here’s how it works: I choose a word or phrase as a writing prompt—or someone suggests one for me. I then sit down with the prompt and write whatever comes to mind, with no planning and very little editing. Then, I record the story and share it with you.
There are no rules or set genres for these stories, and they are often a bit silly. Or sweet… or poignant… whatever comes up. If you want more carefully planned and polished stories, you can learn more about my novels on my website, SusanQuilty.com.
For now, let’s see what unplanned story came up today:
Reusable Straws
The red-and-white paper straws crowded in their glass jar, quietly sneering at the plastic neon straws jumbled together in their ripped open plastic bag. The bag had a cartoon drawing of a straw with big eyes and a bigger smile. Its face was set just below its pleated bend, making the top of the straw look like a swoop of hair.
“So undignified,” one striped straw murmured to another. The others whispered agreement, their voices dry and muffled.
The bendy straws heard but chose to ignore their judgment. They knew the striped straws felt they were better than other straws. The classic straw, they often boasted. They said their paper bodies were better for the planet and their red-and-white stripes were iconic.
Of course, they didn’t entirely understand what those words meant. They had only picked them up from the people who came through from time to time, plucking up straws and leading them to their destiny.
The striped straws were usually carried away in tall glasses of soda or lemonade. The bendy straws rarely went into a proper glass, as the striped straws called them. Instead, the bendy straws would be pushed through x-shaped holes on the plastic lids of plastic cups decorated with cartoon pictures of animals and stars.
“It’s fitting,” the striped straws would agree when discussing the bendy straws typical new homes. It bothered them greatly on the rare occasion when a bendy straw was ushered into one of their tall, clear glasses.
The striped straws weren’t the only judgy straws in the bunch. The white wrapped straws tried not to notice the other straws at all. They couldn’t see well through their paper wrappings and didn’t mind being cocooned away. They were the chosen straws, according to their teachings.
Wrapped straws weren’t put into a cup at all. Instead, they were hand-carried beside a tall paper cup with a lid. Not a plastic cup with cartoons on it, but a stately white, paper cup with a simple blue band. Their teachings said they were too special to be carried inside the cup. They were equal to the cup and would sit beside it in the hereafter.
None of the straws knew what the hereafter would be. Some assumed they would no longer be in a shared place with a variety of straws but be reunited with their own kind in a special new place. Others mocked that idea, saying that they were all carried through the same swinging doors no matter what kind of cup they rode in… or beside.
From their large-mouthed jar, the milkshake straws laughed at the other straws’ speculation. They had echoing laughs that rippled through the other straws, earning collective scorn. But the milkshake straws didn’t care.
“What does it matter?” they would ask with a chuckle. They knew they’d be carried away in large cups of thick concoctions topped with whipped cream and sprinkles or chocolate shavings.
Chosen milkshake straws never slumped beside the edge of their glasses and they didn’t need plastic lids to hold them upright. They were plunked through those clouds of cream and stood tall as they rode through the doors to their new world.
One day, a sleek metal container was added to the countertop. A batch of cold stainless-steel straws clattered into their new home and surveyed the other straws warily. These straws were decidedly different than the others. Their metal bodies were shaped into elegant angles that didn’t wobble like the bendy straws. They had clean lines that the striped straws feared would become the new classic, and their opaque material was even more mysterious than the wrapped straws’ paper coatings.
Even the milkshake straws were mildly agitated by the new metal straws. They weren’t sure why, as the metal straws certainly leaned against their container like the striped straws. Yet they also made a clinking sound when they were spoke, which reminded them of their own echoing style.
What’s worse, the metal straws claimed they wouldn’t be restocked like the others. They told wild stories of how they would be carried through the swinging doors, held against people’s mouths while fluid rushed through them, then be taken to a sink of soapy water before being returned to the same countertop container.
“That’s preposterous!” the striped straws argued.
“You’ll see,” the metal straws replied calmly. “We’re reusable straws. We get washed and used again and again, not like the rest of you.”
An uncomfortable commotion spread through the other straws.
“What happens to the rest of us?” a milkshake straw finally asked with a tremble in its voice.
“Well, we don’t know exactly. We only know that we come back again and again but you do not.”
The striped straws sighed in relief though tried to hide that they had ever been concerned. The bendy straws and wrapped straws decided not to listen to another word from these strange metal straws. The milkshake straws were still bothered.
“But you’ve seen things before coming back to your container…” one of them pressed. “What’s it like on the other side of the swinging doors?”
The other straws reluctantly turned their attention back to the metal straws. They had all wondered what was behind the doors. It was their greatest question and they all had theories.
“Well…” the metal straw began slowly, trying to decide how much to share when—
“Max? Max?”
Max lifted his pencil from his notebook and turned toward the cabin. His mom was standing on the back porch. She scanned the lightly wooded area before catching sight of Max swinging in the shady hammock.
“What are you doing?” she called, while walking toward him.
“Nothing,” Max said, quickly closing the notebook to hide his story. His mom eyed his blank face before glancing at the notebook.
“Okay,” she said lightly. “Come get your swimsuit on. We’re going down to the lake.”
Max sighed and looked up at the leaves branching overhead. Their shades of green overlapped, covering most of the blue sky. The hammock swayed slightly.
“Do I have to go?” Max asked, already knowing the answer.
“Yes, we’re all going. Now come on.”
Max sighed heavily.
“You like the lake,” his mom told him encouragingly, but Max only looked away.
He did like the lake. He liked the winding walk through the woods to get there, and he liked the funny man who rented them kayaks. He liked paddling in a kayak with his sister—though he’d never admit it—and he liked watching his parents gliding through the water beside them.
They were only at the cabin for a week, and Max knew his story could wait. Still, he looked at the closed notebook with longing. The feel of words flowing through his pencil was as magical as gliding across the lake in a kayak, just in a different way.
“What were you writing?” his mom asked, breaking Max’s reverie.
“Nothing important,” Max said as he began to sit up and swing his legs over the edge of the hammock. He never told his family about the stories he wrote. He didn’t tell his friends either.
Looking at the closed notebook in his lap and the ground several inches below his feet, Max knew he couldn’t tell his mom that he had been writing a story about the existential fear of a bunch of drinking straws. Or could he?
With his gaze still looking at the hazy grass beyond his feet, Max wondered what his mom would say if he handed her his notebook. If he opened it to the story about the straws or to any of the other stories filling its lined pages.
“Okay, then,” his mom said suddenly, taking Max at his word. “Let’s hit the lake!”
Max lifted himself off the hammock and felt his feet press into the stable ground.
“Race you to the cabin!” Max yelled, laughing as he and his mom shot across the grass and scrambled up the porch steps.
In his room, Max dropped the notebook on his bed, telling himself that he could pick it up another time. It was just a story, he decided. It didn’t really matter.
Inside the notebook, the straws waited, wondering if they’d ever find out what was behind the swinging door.
The End
I hope you enjoyed that story… or story within a story… sort of? If you did enjoy it, please share Freely Written with your friends. You can also listen to past stories in any order and maybe be inspired to write one of your own.
While this podcast is a fun pastime, I would really love for you to check out my novels. They tend to be grounded in reality but often have a sci-fi, fantasy, or psychological twist. You can find more information at SusanQuilty.com or look me up—Susan Quilty—wherever you buy books. Links are also in the show notes.
Until next time, try a little free writing of your own. Let go of any planning and see where your imagination takes you.
[Light piano music]
