Creative Narrative

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
In an house, the walls still echo with the sounds of an inner struggle.

Submitted: November 23, 2011

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Submitted: November 23, 2011

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Through the warped square of the single glass window, dust waltzed in the shards of light breaking through the crackling, rust-colored leaves of the trees. Passersby would see Vincent leave his home and wander off towards work. What they would not see is the way a small chilled breeze from the doorway tickled the legs of his bed. Its feeling of monotony had once again been ignited. Firewood piled outside the small house rotted quietly. A faint, smoky smell of burning wood had settled into the silent floorboards. Alone, minus themselves, the furniture began to ponder aloud.

The comfortable, sturdy bed questioned, “Don’t you long for more?”

No one made a move to respond. It was often the bed had existential crises. The creaking, wooden chair decided to humor him.

“Why, no,” he responded. “Giving rest to Vincent’s aching bones at the end of the day is fulfilling enough.”

The bed snapped back, “Well it isn’t for me! Every day we experience the same things! Over and over, day after day, we slowly rot here. Think of all I could be. I want to lay down to rest with a King or Queen, or be remembered in museums for comforting a princess.”

The paintings giggled at the absurdity of it all. Never had they wanted to leave. Fearful of the outside world, their only choice was to allow others to gaze at the beautiful brushstrokes of places they would never go.

On and on they argued throughout the day. Their roundabout questions twisted between the rafters. With his argument getting shaky, the bed made one final statement.

“Here I sit, wasted wood! I would be better off as firewood for all the use I am.”

His voice slowly trailed off into the huge, dark pit of low self-worth. Sighing, the chair knew he could be of little help now. Time and time again he had thrown down countless ropes and lanterns, trying desperately to save him. He knew now to leave him to slowly claw his way to the top.

Finally, the sun had lowered, and they were plunged into dark silence. Vincent would be home soon. And there they would be, just as he’d left them.


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