Simon and the Chair

Simon sat in the room. He sat on the floor. The room contained a few things- a sewing machine, a bed of nails and a tissue box- but none of them served as an adequate seat. Neither the sewing machine, which was too small and awkward of a shape, nor the uncomfortably sharp bed of nails provided a suitable resting place for Simon's bottom. The tissue box simply crumpled when he tried to sit on it.

Simon's Diary, Day One:

This place is terrible! There's nothing to sit on! Which makes this diary entry nearly impossible to write. I either have to sit cross legged and bend over awkwardly or lie painfully on my side, propped up on my left elbow. Terrible!

The next day, Simon hated the room even more. It stank of melted plastic.

Simon's Diary, Day Two:

I hate this place. It's horrendous. Not only are there no things to sit on, but it stinks. It smells. Like melted plastic. I don't have the faintest what it could be. The sewing machine is in perfect condition, it's not plugged in; it never has been.

On a more positive note, I found two other positions in which it is possible to write. I can write standing up with my diary on the wall or I can lie on my stomach with the diary out in front of me. Neither of these positions are overly comfortable, but neither were the other two, so... yeah. I'm used to the discomfort.

The next day, Simon woke up early. His body ached from spending the night lying on the floor. He got up, wishing he had a comfortable seat. He stared at the sewing machine, small and awkwardly shaped, he stared at the bed of nails, pointy and uninviting. And he stared at the tissue box, tiny and weak. And he sighed. Loudly.

Simon's Diary, Day Three:

I wish I had a good seat to sit on.

Simon opened his eyes, his face still pressed up against the cold floor. Something was different. He saw the wooden base of the bed of nails, the plastic base of the sewing machine and the flowery cardboard base of the tissue box. These were things he'd seen before. But in front of the bed of nails were what looked like four wooden legs. Simon quickly closed his eyes again, rolled over, and propped himself up on his left elbow.

Simon's Diary, Day Four:

This is being written a tad earlier than I normally write these daily diary entries, but this is urgent. I just woke up to the sight of four wooden legs. Could it be a chair? I'm too frightened to get up and get a wider view. What if it's not a chair? Then I would be horribly disappointed. Then again, what would four wooden legs be doing standing on their own with no platform resting on top of them? That wouldn't make any sense at all. Oh, what should I do?

Simon closed his eyes again and got up from the floor. Breathing heavily, he did a half turn and opened his eyes with a jerk. He saw a small and awkwardly shaped sewing machine, a pointy and uninviting bed of nails, a tiny and weak-looking box of tissues, and a chair.

Simon's Diary, Day Four, Part Two:

IT WAS A CHAIR. I'm almost scared to sit on it. Wait, who am I kidding? It'll be amazing. It even has a cushion and a backrest.

Simon approached the chair.

"How's it going?" asked the chair in a casual tone.

Simon gaped.

"Come and take a seat," continued the chair. "I'm nice and comfy. I've even got a cushion and a backrest."

Simon was too shocked to say anything. He turned away from the chair and lay down on his side again.

Simon's Diary, Day Four, Part Three:

The chair talked to me. He (it had a male voice, anyway) asked me to sit on him. I didn't. I mean, it was slightly disturbing. A talking chair. It would've been like sitting on someone's lap. A strange man's lap. Gah! Seriously, would you sit on a talking chair?

***

Well, would you?

___ Yes

___ No

***

So... I didn't sit on the chair. After all this waiting for a seat to sit on, when one finally appears, I don't sit on it.

Simon woke up the next day groggy and sore. He looked at the chair. It didn't say anything. Maybe he just dreamed about it talking. Simon approached it hopefully.

"Have a good sleep?" the chair asked.

Simon nearly convulsed.

"Well, feel free to have a seat, if you like," the chair continued.

Simon's knees buckled.

Simon's Diary, Day Five:

I can't take it anymore! I want to sit down so bad, but the chair talks! You can't sit down on a talking chair! I need to do something.

Simon stopped writing. He sniffed. The smell of melted plastic was stronger now. He stared at the unplugged sewing machine, and then at the tissue box and the bed of nails beside it. And then his mind started formulating a plan. He spent the rest of the night lying on his back and thinking.

The next day, Simon woke up early, like he had three nights previously. It was time to put his plan into action.

"You call that a seat?" shouted the chair suddenly. "That's what I'd call a piece of shit! Get the hell away from there and come sit on me, you bastard!"

Simon stared at the chair and walked over to it.

"Sorry for yelling," said the chair sweetly. "But I am a lot comfier."

Simon picked up the chair and threw it towards the wall. The chair flew apart before it even made contact.

Comments

Steve
Good story. I like how the setting is very minimal.

Christopher
Yeah, the few details provided to establish the setting really enhanced this piece; especially the fact that all those details add to the pervasive feeling of discomfort. It makes everything hard to trust, tense.

Marc
I really enjoyed this story...I found it really quite funny actually! Great Story!