Tell A Tale in 500 Words

The Chair By Colin Sinclair

She sits, the chair is all encompassing, standing, rooted, on the stained wooden floor,

carved legs glued by the build-up of dust and sweat. Accentuating the shadows of the room and mind. The frayed upholstery, offering loose ends of thought and deed.



The flaking mildewed walls, suffuse a dank musty smell into the oppressive atmosphere.

Tattered, blotched curtains, frame the divided window.



She peers out through the dirt stained panes. Grey, Low threatening clouds roll by, ponderous in their progress. Skimming the rooftops, seen though the imperfect glass.

The pallid, concrete starkness of the buildings, sharply intrude on the vista. A multitude of TV aerials, strikingly dark, poke their way into the background, like ragged teeth.



A sharp thought pierces her mental solitude. The room remembered full of light and joy as a child, cherishing the beauty of the skyline and the opportunity beyond. Flickering, spectral glimpses of a girl skipping, laughing, circling the chair, facing a future full of adventure, hope, promise, prosperity and love.



The Lines on her face mirror the decay of the chair, the room, her mind. The list of culprits is long but alone with her melancholy she and the chair endure both having been ravaged by time, solitude, circumstance and neglect. Ponderously rushing towards life’s end.



A further thought, away out?



How sublime the thought that drives serendipity

As darkness had attempted to eclipse the joy of the hour

So had come the glorious hidden chrysalis of truth.

Resplendent carapace shrouding the birth of hope.

Disquieting quivers, rippling at the surface of deliverance.

Hinting at the blissful rapture, amassing within.

Sequestered nirvanic power to reform a human covenant.

Calling for obsequious acceptance to allow the metamorphosis.



Can a thought deliver so much?

After all, it is all she has, entombed and manacled to her present circumstance.


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