The Chair

There's a chair. A small chair fit for a man, a normal man of the time. He used to sit in the chair. The master would watch the game or read a bed time story to his young children before marching them to bed. Now, the chair is empty. Solitude had taken the seat of the owner that once dominated it. Silence, was now the only sound heard amongst the abode that had now been abandoned. And with its abandonment, the chair would forever lie empty. Once a king sat upon it in leisure, propping his feet up when he enjoyed the pleasures of gluttony. Only the lord was allowed to set upon the chair, his throne, the seat of his power and authority. But now there was nothing but fading memory.

Where had the master gone? Up above the seat, is a sky. It was gray, and black, and whips of old marshmallows danced about the horizon, dark and menacing, but never raining. Sometimes, it would thunder, and sometimes, the wind would howl, like a lonely wolf searching for a companion in the harsh desert nights. Whistle. Whistle. Whistle. Almost as if, the gusts spoke to themselves, to stave away the boredom left only by abandonment. Like the chair that sulked sorrowfully below them, forever wishing to dance freely about the sky, but forever doomed to be shackled to the Earth, waiting patiently for a weary, work exhausted sitter to return home that never would. It was this longing that would bring in the various small insect-like creatures that would inhabit the ramshackle, unkempt flooring below that chair. This longing, which would attract the whimsical creatures as company, that never felt, never thought, and most of all, were never warm, would only give the fallen throne little solace.

There's a rattle at the foot of the chair. A baby's rattle. It is shattered, and the scores of tiny beads that once were housed in the tiny, antique, spherical shell, had been scattered about a broken, wooden floor whose boards are now in disarray. They roll about in a dizzying dance, showboating a beautiful, ornate skill of the purest, most beautiful fluidity. It's a waltz, a stunning display, wrought by the moving winds of the horizon above- put on display for the lonely chair, whose unyielding depression left it sullen and drooping. But the brilliant performance was naught, but ignored by the brooding furnishings. And thus, each and everyday, when the wind blew, and the excess soared through the open beams of a roof, less than existent, the small beads from within a hand made, love crafted toy, would toddle about in a dance of marvelous display, until none remained. Until each and every pebble sized sphere disappeared into the crevices of condemned flooring.

However, this satire was not of a grand scale. The ivory white fence, now nothing but tarnished, scorched splinters lay about hither and thither, watched the hazy horizon for employers that would never arrive home from their never ending vacation. Yes, a vacation it could be called. For, without warning, the ones who pushed open and closed the ivory white fence vanished. One minute, a child played joyfully with a small puppy in a verdant yard, the next, gone. At least to the consciousness of the perimeter, everything had simply vanished in rapid succession. And from then on, from pillar to post, as it were, the fencing would search with what little vision it had left, for those that used to put it to work.

The scorched door, would solemnly view the fence’s daunting regimen with eyes of sorrow upon its panes. Once, it felt complete. For it too, was put to work by its tiny masters and the patrons of these tiny people. However, it now reckons itself to solitude. Unlike the various furnishings, structures, and elements about it, the door that lay slightly ajar seemed to not miss the masters-slavers. And slavers were they. It was, for this scorched opening, a happy reprieve from its constant use. It had long since wished for a break from its seemingly eternal bonds. During the darkness of the deepest midnight, the passage would be awakened by the constant, angry bickering of the king and queen of this small dominion. For one, it had grown tired, and welcomed the rest. But, it never seemed to cease its worry over the fence that it overlooked.

A dusty grandfather clock sat in solemn meditation. Time ticked as slowly for it as the pendulum that had long since stopped moving. The stalwart face observed a circular room with a tattered old rug and a large table the masters would sit at to take their meals. Plates still lay in place as if they would return famished at any second. But the lords of the keep never returned, the humble sentinels remaining forever vigilant. Hands on a sad face had stopped turning, paralyzed in lonely despair. Servants only existed to serve, but the importance of time had long since been forgotten.

But the chair, of all, longed for its master. For decades, it waited. The wear and tear from the elements had finally begun to show its decay. The cushioning now leaked from the seat, springs protruded from the arms, and the spring loaded foot rest still sat parallel to the ground, as if the king had recently sat upon the throne, and forgot to push back the lever. But now, after so long, the armchair had begun to curse its former master. It hated and scorned the one that once needed it, but now, half a century had passed, and it was naught but a relic. And it stewed in its contemptuous antiquity. But how could it ever known..

There’s a chair. It sits alone in its scorn. It longs for a master who left it. And yet, it would never have known, that the ashes, and dust of its king remained scorched to its chair, eternally fixated in the frame of his last living moment.