Chair Observes Virtually Inexplicable Desertion (Where did you go?)

My feet remain bolted to the floor. My legs, back, and seat stiff and unforgiving. 

I’ve never sat vacant for so long. 

I look straight ahead and survey the perpetual stillness. The chairs in the stands across the stadium — directly across from me — are just as empty. They are fellow chairs that were produced in the same factory as me, but who were manufactured too far down the line to cross paths; we were installed too far away from one another to ever have a meaningful conversation. We are at once kin and complete strangers.

As any stationary object, our only hope is that we prove useful to humans and that our neighbouring chairs are not a total bore.

I got lucky. The chairs around me — my friends and family, my brothers and sisters — help me pass the time as we recall the many moments that humans sat upon us, spilling pop and beer and nacho cheese. As chairs, we accept that our mission is to assist you when you want (or need) to take a seat- and yes, the fact that “ass” is in “assist” is considered a fortunate, if not cheeky, play on words.

When the silence began, one of my neighbouring chairs took the opportunity to complain about the goth kids in decades past who had chains hanging from their clothes. They scratched the hard plastic of his seat- their zippers in places that didn’t make sense to any of us. (But then what do we know about fashion?)  Another chair joined in as we commiserated; she reminded us about the ridiculousness and prevalence of body glitter years ago. That was a rough time for all of us, as glitter is a shimmering inescapable mess if you’re a chair made of plastic. Alas, we can’t partake in your trends (or understand them completely); we can merely observe. 

Call me a masochist, but I quite like the small heart that a young rebel in love carved into the left side of my seat when on a date with a young lady. He returned with that same woman years later and proposed in this very stadium. Though they didn’t sit in my section, I watched on the big screen above the court as the man got down on one knee and the young woman accepted his proposal through happy tears. The applause of thousands of strangers who surrounded them thundered throughout. Though these people shared in the joy of this couple’s happy moment, I’ll never forget the way they kissed as if they were not among strangers, for at that moment, he saw only her and she him. 

The little boy whom I assisted that evening had no idea that the heart he traced as he sat through the proposal — waiting patiently for the game to restart — was carved by the man on the screen some years before. I wish I could have told him about the significance of that heart, but that’s not a chair’s place.

Like this little boy, it’s always a joy to see young children accompany their sports-loving family to the most anticipated game of the time. It doesn’t matter the sport; the fanfare, camaraderie, and the love of the game is exuberantly passed down, from generation to generation. Bearing witness to this transfer of tradition is what I’m missing most- when parents explain the game to their wide-eyed kids; children cheer and imitate the adults around them as they offer their own commentary to the delight of the fans surrounding them.

The quiet days have turned into weeks. I yearn for the applause, the laughter, the jeers, the chants, and the boos. Humans are strange, I think to myself. Perhaps we will never understand you. Then again, perhaps it’s not my place.

After all, you left with no warning. I hope everything’s okay, though I know deep in my bolts that you’re facing something extraordinary.

We sit abandoned, dutifully waiting for life to return to normal. In addition to the empty stadium, I wonder what else is left unused? Empty airports, empty schools, office buildings, and museums- structures made to enrich your lives wait for your return. Stationary objects everywhere are holding up our end of the bargain; we only hope that you do what you have to do so life as we know it can once again resume. 

The silence is eerie. Wherever you are, I’m sure you feel it too. 

You probably didn’t realize how social you were until you disappeared. Whatever you’re going through — for however long it takes — perhaps when life returns to normal, you’ll appreciate the little things a little more. 

If I ever have the opportunity to assist you, perhaps standing from your seat to allow someone to pass while you’re gathered at the stadium won’t be such an inconvenience. I wonder- will you offer a stranger a kind word or a smile a little faster than you used to before the silence? 

Will this time inspire you to look up from your screens and experience the beauty of the world and appreciate the moments that you have? (It’s not too late to start now.) Wherever you are, I can only imagine that your phones are with you, as I rarely see you without them. Maybe when you come back, you’ll make an effort to record the special moments in your memory rather than through the lens of a smartphone. 

With all of that said, maybe I’m off my rocker to think that humans would take advice from a chair, but if you haven’t stood up and walked away, consider that while a chair’s mission is to assist humans, perhaps a human’s mission should be to assist other humans too.

Until I can finally assist you again, wherever you are, I invite you to take a seat. Take a moment. Take a breath. Take some time.


If you liked the above, you would really enjoy:

🇨🇦 Musings of a Masterpiece

A work of art narrates its journey through time in this short story. 

In the centuries since its creation, it has witnessed the joy of love and companionship, the heartache of loss, and hardship. Beauty may be in the eye of the beholder, but what if the masterpiece you so admire silently muses at the countless wonders of humanity?

🇺🇸: Amazon.com users, click here.

🇬🇧: Amazon.co.uk users, click here.


Amber Green is a self-published Canadian author and freelance writer. Her short stories can be found here: www.amazon.com/author/ambergreen


© 2020 Amber Green

2019: Year of the Phoenix

2019 may be the year of the pig in East-Asian/Chinese astrology (it remains so until January 24, 2020), but for yours truly, it has been the year of the Phoenix (like that in ancient Greek folklore).

I burned my preconceived notions and tired formats to the ground through three major shifts and accomplishments in my professional life this year:

  1. I started my own publishing company, It’s A Go Publishing, in order to self-publish electronic short stories available through Amazon (Kindle) and Kobo. Each story is/will be written with a message of hope, empowerment, and inspiration intended to permit each reader to enjoy, pause, and reflect. In time, I seek to build an online following that I will use to leverage a highly coveted publishing deal with a major publishing house for my first novel. Speaking of which,
  2. I completed my first novel earlier this year, which is the first installment of a trilogy. In my pursuit of a literary agent, I have already been the beneficiary of great kindness from other writers and professionals in the publishing industry, who have served as learned cartographers as I continue to navigate my travels through the literary landscape.
  3. I shifted and redefined the focus of my freelance writing business, The Write Results.  

I emerge from the ashes with these experiences and sage lessons as a businesswoman with a new sense of purpose, an impregnable answer for the oh-so-necessary, “What’s my why?” and continued feelings of gratitude for all of those who have helped me along the way. 

Whatever your business- whatever your purpose- I hope that you will join me as I bring the heat in 2020. 

Extinguish the doubts and fears that have been holding you back and illuminate your dreams until your mission is ablaze. Like the Phoenix, rise from the ashes of your past lessons and welcome a renewed, revitalized version of yourself this new year.

It’s A Go, 2020! Let’s light it up! 

Amber Green

Rags To Riches: Part 8

Saturday Story: Rags To Riches

Hello! Thank you for visiting my blog to read part 8 of my Saturday Story: Rags to Riches. Feel free to let me know what you think by commenting below, and please be sure to come back next week for part 9!

Give your life the green light. It’s A Go!

Amber Green

Rags to Riches: Part 8

Rags to Riches
Rags to Riches. Art by Dixie Foxton; used with permission.

To Riches:

I looked up at the brand new sign- Engines & Fenders; it was one of hundreds in the country. I had been to a number of new openings, but it was always a thrill. In the coming years, we planned to grow the chain to thousands of locations worldwide. It had come a long way from that one little location on Main street.

From Rags:

I concentrated on looking normal; my face relaxed and interested (but not too interested) in the conversation my family and Chris’s friend, Dave were having during brunch at my parents’ house. (Dave may or may not be Chris’s secret make-out partner from the auto repair shop yesterday, dubbed ‘Mr. Mystery Arms’ by my sister, Priscilla and I).

“Thank you very much for having me, Mr. and Mrs. Bruno,” Dave said politely, after introductions had been made.

“Not at all!” my mother replied. “I miss when Priscilla, Frankie and Chris were in school. We always had their friends over.”

“So, Dave what do you do?” my father asked.

“I’m a mechanic,” Dave answered. I have my own auto repair shop on Main Street.”

Engines & Fenders?” my dad asked him, as I dug into my mom’s famous frittata.

“That’s the one,” Dave said with a smile.

“I like that place,” my dad said, approvingly.

“You’re very young to have your own business,” my mother said, admiringly.

“Well, my parents owned the business; they sold it to me when they retired last year. I learned about cars from them.”

“See, Chris, your friend may have had a leg up, but he’s clearly driven-” my mother started.

“Yeah, you should hang out with him more- maybe his good habits will rub off on you,” my father finished my mother’s thought. Whether it was simply bad timing, or my father’s statement caught me off guard, I started choking on my eggs.

Everyone stared at me, as I continued to choke. My mom and dad asked if I was okay, and looked ready to jump out of their chairs if I required the Heimlich maneuver. I motioned that I was fine, and took a sip of water. Clearly, I was failing miserably at ‘looking normal.’

Once I had recovered, and conversation resumed, I noticed Chris glance at me from the corner of my eye. It was brief, but I swear I saw him smirk.

Why would he smirk? I wondered. No one had just told a joke– unless… That little putz! I thought to myself. He did see us last night! And now, what? He’s punishing my sister and me for not telling him? What’s wrong with him? 

We finished brunch, and my sister started gathering the kids after we helped our mother clear the table. “You can’t leave yet,” I whispered to my sister, after she thanked our mother for brunch.

“Why? The boys need to go,” Priscilla said- our brother and his possible-lover clearly not high on her list of priorities.

“They’re kids! Whose birthday party is it? One of the royals? Seriously- they can be five minutes late,” I hissed at my sister. “Boys, help grandma tidy up. Dad, I’m sure Dave would love to see your car-” I said. The boys set to work (getting in my mom’s way more than helping, I’m sure).

“That’s a good idea, Frankie,” my father replied, predictably. “Luke, come with us,” my father said.

“We’ll be right out,” I called to my father. Before Chris could follow them, I grabbed his arm and commandeered my siblings into my parents’ laundry room, closing the door behind us.

“Who goes into the laundry room to talk?” Chris asked.

“Shut up, Chris,” I said, immaturely. I locked eyes with my brother, and waited a beat. “You saw us,” I said, looking at my sister.

“You saw us,” my brother said. Immaturity was running rampant today; I thought it juvenile for my brother to bring ‘Mr. Mystery-Arms’ to brunch before we spoke, and I had just forced my adult siblings into the laundry room at our parents’ house; despite all of it, in that moment, Chris didn’t look like my little brother; he looked like a man who knew who he was. Unafraid. Unapologetic. Honest.

Without another word, Priscilla and I embraced our brother.

………

Continue reading Rags to Riches: Part 9 here.

*This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

© 2018 Amber Green