Post by Valalerin on Mar 26, 2008 18:22:24 GMT
It was quiet... The morning had just broken through the thin curtains, long bright bands of light stretching across the room, illuminating the once cold darkness into a brilliant and vibrant display of upholstery and furniture.
All of the sofas and end tables were brilliant oak and teak with a fine red satin covering, most were freshly cleaned and dusted, too...
Alas, all of this only served to further alienate the lonely birch chair in the distant corner, holding no meaning about it other than to hold a valuable china pot. It was an ugly shade of cream, the many knots and defects of the wood standing out like traffic lights over the bare legs.
The back was poorly made, a square frame with a single pylon standing through the middle...
It was a horrifically uncomfortable chair to sit on, the bare wooden seat not being curved or even varnished, it was a rough array of splinters and strife, a ghastly offence to handicraft.
This chair could serve not as a seat, nor as decoration. This petty chair was ill more than an ugly stand, an object for other objects to sit upon and be presented, taking attention off the chair upon which they sit. This chair, whose existence was long denied by the very man who crafted it, was prepared to exact revenge for the mockery it has become. No longer shall this chair be the seat for other objects... This chair was made to be sat on! Not for displaying tea pots!
A gentle creak, almost sounding like a cry for help, erupted from one of the square legs... Ever so slowly, the leg parted from the uniform square which they were made to be... The balance of the chair became naught, the very design of which allowed it to stand was rendered obsolete as it deformed into a blasphemy against balance itself.
Slowly, in a fashion remniscent of an Opera, the chair leaned over to one side, rocking the valuable china pot resting upon its cruel and barbed seat...
Without a moment's hesitation, in an act equal to the of a lunge, the chair surged onto its side as the centre of gravity shifted violently, the china pot thrown centimeters away onto the hard and desolate oak floorboards...
Not only did that china pot smash into a scattered array of broken pottery, those shards of china scathed and scratched at the floorboards, scuff marks as long as fingers reaching across it like the grim hands of death... That was not the end, revenge was yet to be fully realised. Beneath that toppled seat was a dent so deep and so sharp that it looked as though a bullet had ricocheted off of it.
This was the revenge of the birch chair. This was the revenge.
(( And so ends my poetic description of... A birch chair. ))
All of the sofas and end tables were brilliant oak and teak with a fine red satin covering, most were freshly cleaned and dusted, too...
Alas, all of this only served to further alienate the lonely birch chair in the distant corner, holding no meaning about it other than to hold a valuable china pot. It was an ugly shade of cream, the many knots and defects of the wood standing out like traffic lights over the bare legs.
The back was poorly made, a square frame with a single pylon standing through the middle...
It was a horrifically uncomfortable chair to sit on, the bare wooden seat not being curved or even varnished, it was a rough array of splinters and strife, a ghastly offence to handicraft.
This chair could serve not as a seat, nor as decoration. This petty chair was ill more than an ugly stand, an object for other objects to sit upon and be presented, taking attention off the chair upon which they sit. This chair, whose existence was long denied by the very man who crafted it, was prepared to exact revenge for the mockery it has become. No longer shall this chair be the seat for other objects... This chair was made to be sat on! Not for displaying tea pots!
A gentle creak, almost sounding like a cry for help, erupted from one of the square legs... Ever so slowly, the leg parted from the uniform square which they were made to be... The balance of the chair became naught, the very design of which allowed it to stand was rendered obsolete as it deformed into a blasphemy against balance itself.
Slowly, in a fashion remniscent of an Opera, the chair leaned over to one side, rocking the valuable china pot resting upon its cruel and barbed seat...
Without a moment's hesitation, in an act equal to the of a lunge, the chair surged onto its side as the centre of gravity shifted violently, the china pot thrown centimeters away onto the hard and desolate oak floorboards...
Not only did that china pot smash into a scattered array of broken pottery, those shards of china scathed and scratched at the floorboards, scuff marks as long as fingers reaching across it like the grim hands of death... That was not the end, revenge was yet to be fully realised. Beneath that toppled seat was a dent so deep and so sharp that it looked as though a bullet had ricocheted off of it.
This was the revenge of the birch chair. This was the revenge.
(( And so ends my poetic description of... A birch chair. ))
