The Chair on the Table

He walked into the room. Somehow, it was different. Yes. It was different. But what had changed? And, furthermore, who had changed it – since there was no-one else around – and a single person could not have done this.

He quickly analysed his reaction. At first startled, but then slightly nervous, mixed with a tinge of disbelief. Moving on to a complete distrust. Of what, he did not know. It must be someone. Or more accurately, someones.

Yes, he thought pervasively, this is not the work of a single individual. He looked up and down the sculpture, on occasion pecking at its structure with the very tip of his finger’s nail. With timidity, he offered a full nudge. It answered with a serious groan – a semblance of internal pain. There was something wrong.

He looked back again, around the room. Was there anyone watching? He immediately felt more of a fool than before. Yes, it had to be someone purposefully creating this monstrosity in order to upset.

What a selfish thought, he chided, reconciling that it probably wasn’t that. He turned back to the object, intent now building towards solving this problem.

“Help,” a whisper from the -
He keened forwards, tippering as an object near the edge of its fulcrum. “Is there anyone in there?” he whispered back, non-comittally, half expecting the door to fling open, with all of his friends in past life and present walking in, laughing at him talking to a range of stacked inanimate objects.
“Help,” a request at similar volume.
He looked, narrowing his eyelids, as if to improve his eyesight beyond what it was capable.
“Help,” as before.
“What do you want?” he spat, louder in his confusion.
“Help,” as before.
“Are you a person? What can I do? How can I get you out?” There was audible panic now in his thickly-coated voice.
“Help,” as before, only louder.
" – "
“Please… help?” with the voice rising in the request.
“I… uh…” he thought quickly, “I’ll try something. Don’t move!”

He decided to do something that mattered. He reached back, gaining in momentum, and pushed, tipping the whole collection to the floor.

He covered his ears. The noise was unbearable. He momentarily closed his eyes, for fear of being hit in the calamity of the strewn items. When he could no longer hear anything, he opened his eyes.

The chairs were neatly pushed in under the table. All four chairs in their correct location, and the lamp in its place. The cookware was hanging up as he remembered, and the reading chair settled happily under the wide summer window. Each and every piece of cutlery was stacked into the dishrack. The plates that he got for his thirtieth birthday were arranged in a pile on the bench. The door to the dishwasher was where it was meant to be.

He sighed. He sat down.
“Help,” said the -

The Chair on the Table

Michelle Smith

Joined April 2007

  • Artist

Artist's Description

What happened in the room?

desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait
desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait

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