I was left alone, surrounded by the bodies of my silenced brothers. They have surrendered from the loud noises of the city and their songs were long forgotten. It was only I who stood his ground, only I continued singing. But the people kept on passing. I will sing until my body rots, just so I don't miss a person who might use a little bit of song to continue their day. I'm still waiting...

I wait all day for letters, love notes, birthday cards, even bills. But lately, people forget I exist. They send everything through their glowing screens instead. So when someone gave me these goofy eyes, I felt alive again. A kid stopped, waved, and even fed me a flyer like it was important mail. I know I’m just a rusty old box, but with these eyes, the street finally notices me again.

Zhaklin - 12b

Stefaniya 12b

When the melody ended, she returned to her room feeling lighter. The piano seemed to whisper, “Come back whenever the world feels heavy.” And she did—every time she needed saving.

Late in the afternoon, a gust of wind rustled the branches that served as his arms. The snowman wobbled, then straightened, determined. A little girl passing by stopped and whispered, “Are you alive?”

For a moment, his eyes seemed to shift toward her. She smiled, certain she’d seen magic—and he stood guard until dawn.

In her room, I saw soft lights, clothes, books, and a mirror that reflected her smile. Sometimes she looked tired, sometimes happy, but she was never boring to watch. I felt like a small quardian, always keeping an eye on her world

One day, something changed. A strong push shook the door, and the glue that held me finally gave up. I fell behind a heavy drawer, into a dark place where 1 could no longer see her room. I wasn't lost - ust hidden, waiting.

Now I hope that one day she will move the drawer, find me again, and put me back on the door. I miss watching her world.

One windy afternoon, a curious hand lifted him from the bin. Suddenly, Fizzlo wasn’t just trash—he was a companion. He loved being carried around, peeking out at the world with his wobbly eyes, greeting everyone with his enthusiastic expression.

Fizzlo soon discovered his mission: to make people smile. Whether sitting on a park bench or rolling gently across cobblestones, he spread unexpected joy. Wherever he went, laughter followed—because sometimes, all it takes is a tiny monster made of tin to brighten a stranger’s day.

Danaya Babankova 12B

When the hand moves, I glide across the page, turning ideas into lines and letters. I watch sentences grow, mistakes disappear, and confidence slowly appear. Around me, everything feels rushed, but I stay focused. With both my eyes open, I make sure no thought is lost, waiting patiently for the next story to begin.

Simona-12b

I stand here every day, watching the world with my two curious eyes and patiently waiting for someone to turn me. I am friendly. I love new people and the adventures behind the door. I may be old and a little worn, but my mechanism still works faithfully. Turn me boldly—who knows what awaits you on the other side.

One evening I grow curious about myself. I read my own pages. I learn what I am. Useful. Silent. Replaceable. So I change one thing. I stop opening easily. Suddenly people struggle. They wait, they think.

I remain closed, heavy with meaning, finally keeping something for myself.

I watch students walk past every day, stressed about tests, pretending they’re not scared of the future. I get it. I’m stuck in one place, but at least I know my purpose. Light up the dark. Be a little weird. Remind people not to take everything so seriously.

Honestly, for a lamp with plastic eyes, I think I’ve figured life out pretty well.

I watch students walk past every day, stressed about tests, pretending they’re not scared of the future. I get it. I’m stuck in one place, but at least I know my purpose. Light up the dark. Be a little weird. Remind people not to take everything so seriously.

Honestly, for a lamp with plastic eyes, I think I’ve figured life out pretty well.

People consider me as a nerd. They think I am smart and kind and as a result they often use me for number of things. Never settle for people who treat you poorly. My favourite thing to do is help others even though sometimes it’s ok to say “no” when someone is looking for my help. You are not destined to be there for everybody but yourself. Be kind to others and yourself.

Nikol Pramatarova - 12b

They think I’m empty, but I eat every day—confessions slid through my mouth, bills folded like apologies, love letters that smell like fear. My eyes never blink. I watch hands hesitate before letting go. At night, I listen to paper breathe inside me, dreaming of being opened. One day, someone will unlock my chest and learn the truth: I remember everyone who ever trusted me enough to let go.

But I remember everyone.

The guy who failed his first rep and laughed instead of quitting.

The girl who added weight, paused, then trusted me enough to try.

The ego lifters who ignore my safety arms (I forgive them… cautiously).

With my googly eyes, I stare back now. I see fear, ambition, insecurity, determination—all laid flat on my backrest.

At night, when the gym empties, I rest. The bar hangs quietly. The mirrors stop judging. And I wait.

Because tomorrow, someone will lie down, look up at the ceiling, and put their trust in me again.

And I will be ready.

Always watching.

Always supporting.

Fine swirls of the once well-kept mustache are now covered in mud and dust. Still, I take careful glances with my three googly eyes, I glare at modern buildings and feel a sense of pride in my electrons and my protons. Architecture nowadays is so boring... Cleaner than me, sure, but where's the depth? Where's the character? I can only see my own reflection in the squeaky clean surface of some newer buildings. Everything is so rigid and uniform, even minimalistic. Oh well. It's a good thing that I'm there to lighten up the mood and give this old town something more pleasing to people's eyes.

Nacho (March) XII "B"

People think I do nothing, but I’m waiting. I watch hands approach. I feel the house breathe. When a plug comes to me—nervous, cold—I hold it and give it power. For a moment, it becomes important.Children say I look like I’m smiling. I’m not. I’m ready.When the room goes dark and quiet, I remember the electricity humming far away, like a promise.

Everything starts with me.

I could see everyone getting bored in the class. The teacher was explaining the lesson, anyone was listening. One boy was playing on his phone, two girls were talking about some food and others were studying for a math exam. 

When they created me at first I felt very excited but two minutes later I was turned into an object of ridicule. 

These kids were horrible ungrateful self-absorbed idiots. 

I remain.

After all… I have the high ground.

May the Force be with you.

Then one day, someone gave me eyes. Cheap plastic ones, slightly crooked. Suddenly I existed. Children laughed, adults paused, phones came out. I watched the watchers. I saw surprise soften into smiles, suspicion into curiosity. I’m still a machine, still humming and counting, but now I have a story on my face. I am no longer just where money passes through—I am where people notice. 👀

But I see everything. Every hesitant glance, every “I’ll just browse” lie.

When December comes, I feel powerful — the discounts wake me up.

The moment they pick me up, I know I’ve won.

A soft beep, a small smile, and another purchase sealed.

I’m just a card… but at Christmas, I’m always watching. It’s my lucky month now , let me enjoy the holidays like you do !

But there came this one day when I was needed - people were screaming, smoke was everywhere and I could just feel the heat oozing. Needless to say, despite all the disrespect, they required my help in the end.

While the other pumpkins only swelled and slept in the sun, this one paid attention—to the wind dragging its fingers through the vines, to the crows arguing on the fence, to the footsteps of the farmer who passed each morning without stopping. The pumpkin learned the rhythm of the world before it ever saw it.

As autumn came, the pumpkin turned a deep, thoughtful orange. It wondered what would become of it. Soup? A lantern? Forgotten rot beneath the frost? Not-knowing made its skin tighten.

One evening, a child slipped through the rows and stopped in front of the pumpkin. She didn’t lift it right away. She sat beside it and said, “You look like you’ve been waiting.”

The pumpkin, if it could have smiled, would have.

She carried it home carefully, carved no face into it, and placed it on her windowsill instead. Each night, light from her room warmed its rind, and the pumpkin listened to new sounds—pages turning, quiet breathing, the scratch of a pencil chasing thoughts.

When winter finally took the pumpkin, it was not afraid. It had learned this much: to be seen, even briefly and gently, was enough.

Someone gave me eyes, and now I can finally see what’s inside me.

I look strange, but I am alive to teach

I watch light stretch across the room and fade as hours pass. Shoes walk by. Chairs scrape softly. Conversations drift above me, sometimes careless, sometimes heavy with meaning. When someone picks me up, I feel their pulse through their fingers. My screen wakes, revealing messages filled with hope, doubt, or impatience. Some are answered immediately. Others are read again and again, then left untouched.

Through my lenses, I collect fragments of everyday life: half-finished homework, empty coffee cups, eyes staring at the ceiling in silence. I see smiles meant for no one and exhaustion hidden behind routine gestures.

When I am set down again, I return to waiting. I do not judge or interrupt. I simply remember. In my memory, ordinary moments become permanent, even when people wish they could forget them.

I see the morning light coming through the window. I see cups of coffee, moving hands, and tired faces rushing past me. Sometimes someone picks me up, presses my buttons, and suddenly the room fills with sound and color. In those moments, I feel useful. I feel important, like I am part of the family.But there are also days when no one touches me. Days when everyone at home is busy. They have no time to watch TV, no time to rest. I stay still, waiting. I don’t feel angry—just a little lonely. I wonder what stories are happening without me.

Still, I wait patiently. I know that sooner or later, someone will reach for me again.

I see everything. I blink at bus tickets, receipts, old photos folded too many times. I watch hands hesitate before opening me—hope first, then worry. Coins gossip in my pockets. Cards sigh when they’re declined. I’ve learned humans measure themselves in numbers, but they measure trust in how tightly they hold me. At night, zipped closed, I still stare into the dark, guarding fragments of a life that isn’t mine, yet somehow depends on me.

Inside, the glasses rested, lenses still warm from the last look they gave the world. They had seen hurried mornings, late trains, and sunsets that felt too important to forget. When the case snapped shut, it wasn’t an ending—it was a promise.

Tomorrow, it would open again, and the world would come back into focus.

Every day, someone lifts me up and pushes me into their nose.

It’s dark, wet, and I don’t like it there.

I wish people would see me for more than just a nose spray.

I’m a tangerine on the shelf, and I see everything. How kids argue about which is tastier—an apple or a pear. How people walk by without noticing me. I stay quiet, but inside, I’m full of ideas. If I could speak, I’d say that a small smile from a passerby is like a ray of sunshine on my peel. But I wait patiently, hoping someone will see in me more than just a fruit.