What was I thinking when I picked last week’s prompts? Oh, that’s right. I was thinking I still had three baby-sitting free days left and it should be a cake-walk. Never mind that the editing had slowed to a crawl and there was other stuff going on.
I may still do the poem from the first prompt, but it won’t be any time soon. You think it’s easy to write twenty lines all starting with the same letter? You give it try. Go on, I dare you. I double dog dare you.
I did write something for the other prompt, but I fully admit I didn’t start it until this morning so it’s a real rush job. Now it’s back to the…gardening. What can I say? It’s a beautiful day outside today and they’re too rare to spend inside writing. LOL
Prompt Two
Write a story from the perspective of Harold the Armchair. What does he think about all day? Does he like being sat on? Do his parents approve of him being an armchair?
My father was a papasan chair and my mother was an elegant wing chair. They were always just a little disappointed I turned out to be nothing more exotic than a common armchair. But I was happy being short and squat, my plump form covered in a tasteful geometric print.
I started out like many chairs, in the showroom of a large furniture warehouse. People would walk slowly down the rows and often they’d stop in front of me to admire me, sometimes even sit down to test me out. There were all kinds of people – short, tall, skinny, fat; the ones I liked the least were those sticky fingered children with their chocolate and candy.
But all too often I heard the adults tell the salespeople, “I love the way this chair feels, but does it come in any other colour?”
Finally I was sold to a designer, at a discounted price because I was a floor model, who liked my browns and golds.
“This chair will be perfect for the house I’m working on,” he gushed. “The colours are just fabulous!”
And so I was loaded up onto the big delivery van and taken to my new home in the Van Dusens’ rumpus room where I thought I’d give years of seating pleasure. Unfortunately, the Van Dusens rarely used their rumpus room, save for an occasional game of pool. Once a week the housekeeper would vacuum my upholstery and fluff my cushions, but other than that I was pretty much left alone.
Several years later, I have no idea how many because frankly I never thought to keep track, the Van Dusens divorced and I, along with the rest of the furniture in the rumpus room, ended up in storage.
A number of years passed before we saw the light of day again. This time we’d been sold in one big lot at a storage unit auction and taken to a used furniture store. Surprisingly I was at the store for a very short time before I was purchased by a family who was furnishing their garage as a play room.
To my dismay, I was covered in a heavy, dark blue slipcover. It itched at first, but eventually I got used to and was actually grateful for it when they got the dog, who liked to curl up on me. There’s nothing worse than dog hair, the couch and club chairs told me.
Time passed. The children grew up and seldom came out to the play room, although the dog still liked to take naps on me. I must admit I was beginning to show my age too. My stuffing was not so plump and despite the slipcover my faux velvet upholstery was wearing thin in spots. It was no surprise when I was loaded onto a truck one day, along with several boxes and a few other pieces of furniture that were no longer used.
Our destination this time was a retirement home. I was placed in a sunny corner in the common room where the residents could sit and look out into the garden, sometimes even have a nap. And if my springs squeaked a little when they sat down, well, so did theirs.
I couldn’t ask for a better place to end my days.
No comments:
Post a Comment