He leaned on the armchair and it broke. ” Ouch! ” He yelled. His wife came running from the kitchen to find out what had happened. She found him on the floor clutching at his arm. She knelt beside him and looked at his arm, “Are you okay?”
Collette
the armchair was rocking back, but not forth and there was something so persistant about the movement that really got grandpa’s nerves. he wouldn’t say a word; the armchair did all the speaking. and the cat meowed. looked left. then right. then it all stopped. and the cat was gone.
I come in the dark cold room. As i slowly walk around the room to find my way, i can faintly see light coming through a window. There where the light shined was an old red wooden armchair.
lucia ortega
attention i try to garner
while hiding behind armor
it’s like I’m trying to barter
to a t-rex with an armchair
I remember sitting in that huge arm chair. Gramps, three cousins, my brother, my sister, and I all crammed on one little chair reading Christmas stories. Love and joy were never as existent as then.
He wanted to take her in the armchair as soon as all the guests had left; her in that silly apron with the coffee beans all over it, her pearl necklace and earrings set, and nothing else.
It was a game waiting for the clock to run down. They were subtle enough to go unnoticed by most, their movements confined to a silent dance only they knew the steps to: a light touch when they slid past each other in the crowded kitchen, again when they found their seats at the table, and yet another when passing the green beans. They sent each other quick smoldering glances over turkey and stuffing. She teased him by licking a drop of errant cranberry sauce innocently off her finger, not even bothering to look at him as she did, but knowing full well he was watching. He countered by surprising everyone with a deep moan of pleasure when the pumpkin pie came out to the table. His mother may have caught on, but only arched an eye brow as he winked back, praising the rich sweetness of the homemade whipped cream as he did. He made sure to save some of it for later, oh yes.
Static
She slouched down deeply into the armchair with her legs draped over the arm rests kicking her foot to the music.
He sat on that armchair everyday. There were few words that came from him, but his prescence felt warming and comforting. When he died, I tried to engulf myself in the ghost of him by sitting in the armchair, looking for that familar warmth. When all I got was a feeling of painful emptyness, I threw the armchair out, hoping I would forget.
Chairs usually don’t have armrest. But those ones that are use in school does. I remember them like itwas just yesterday. School years, especially in secondary high school. We used them everyday for lessons.
Now, standing in my old school, remembering highschool memories, I’ m back here to visit,
and get to know some people, for I am here not only to visit, but to teach. And eventually, I will always see those armchairs everyday.
I tip-toe downstairs, thanking myself for wearing socks. The wood flooring creaks and I cringe. The only light is from the small fireplace in the living room. I creep around the corner and smile. Rory dozes in an armchair in the corner of the room right next to the fire. His glasses are askew and his mouth is slightly open. The fire softly illuminates his face making his cheekbones and chin stand out. His usually dark brown hair looks slightly gold and auburn, too. I pick up the glasses and set them on a nearby table. He looks so calm and safe. Innocent. Something we were never allowed to be in our lives as operatives.
I sigh, dropping a kiss on his forehead. He stirs, placing his hand on the back of my neck, pulling me closer and pressing his lips to mine.
Alibay
Alice slid into her favourite armchair and pulled her blanket tighter. The days had been slowly getting colder and today seemed to be the day that the clouds would break and snow would come falling down. She always preferred the winter months because they carried about a stillness to the world that could not be found in other seasons. However, it was only made better as it gave people an excuse to cuddle, wear comfy sweaters and drink hot chocolate.
She was so comfortable there. I remember sitting on her knee, little legs swaying off the edge. She would try to cover me with her knitted wool blanket, but I would always resist, opting for freedom. And though I was jostling her, she would do nothing but smile with those soft, loving eyes.
The man leaned back in the chair and lifted his cigar to his lips. When he exhaled, the smoke came out in rings indicative of his years of experience with the practice. He did not cough. His arm stretched, slowly, leisurely, over the back of the chair, extending past the end so his wrist was dangling and his weight was shifted into the chair.
Miranda
He stroked his chin in contemplation, leaning back in the armchair. The ancient springs squeaked in protest under his weight.
I remember when my old friend told me
about the armchair she used to watch
as a little girl,
no older than seven,
and she told me something
about it. she told me the armchair,
or maybe the rocking chair? was
where she saw the ghosts in her house
and they talked with her,
sitting there
while she listened to them
and sometimes talked back
not knowing that it was scary.
He stretched his legs, carefully, so as not to be noticed. Moving slowly, he tried to stand without causing the armchair to creak. Tiptoeing out of the room, he used the bathroom and went to the kitchen for another can of beer. He was sure Billy had not noticed the armchair was available, had not even woken from his slumber on the sofa, but when he returned to the living room, there Billy was, snuggled up warmly in his armchair, fast asleep again, purring contentedly.
tonykeyesjapan
The chair was battered, and long, lovingly abused. Threadbare, it had seen only one genration of children, yes, but it had been a fort and a climbing fortress, a scratching post for generations of cats, a place for rest, storytime, and for the occasional console. It held a lifetime of experiences.
I sat in the armchair waiting for the day to arrive.
Tina
Its a big and fluffy armchair it was always green in my grandparent’s living room. I tore it once when I was six but noone noticed and i didn’t say anything about it. I always liked it but I never liked the color and then one day it was just gone and I felt like my childhood friend was missing for a while. What replaced it was a straight backed, stiffer chair that wasn’t as much of a hug when you sat down.
Anna
He’s sitting in the armchair with the sawed off shotgun in his lap. Whoever steps into the door next will get their heads blown off, he thinks to himself, grip tightening on the gun. It doesn’t even matter who it is. Beast or man, they’re all threats. He doesn’t have friends any more.
neko-fish
Jared sat back in his armchair, taking a sip of his coffee and cracking open the daily newspaper. It was an old person’s habit, everyone told him, Reading the obituaries. But you never knew what you might find. Who you might find. Or, more importantly, how you might find.
For instance, the second entry.
Louis Able, age 34, found chopped into pieces in a sewer on 96th street.
Now, this was how you started a morning.
Krimigen
I sat in the armchair with nothing to do. It was a dark leather color. There was a stain on the back but it was covered by a pink and orange pillow. I moved the pillow out of the way and snuggled into the chair. The chair smelled a bit old and musty but it was clean. I sat there for a while with my feet tucked underneath my legs.
Amelia
I always remember childhood Thanksgivings….Poppo sitting in this big ole chair and I’m 6 or 7. The game is that Mom wants me to help clear the table or put my toys up or something. And Poppo says…”run over here and get on the ‘safe’ side!”
Chana
It’s our new model. The arm-wheelchair. Sleek and comfortable. It doesn’t look like you’re disabled, just like you’re lazy.
he was sitting in the armchair, looking around the room. the chair was bound in brown leather, and left him with a feeling of warmth and security – it smelled of tobacco, the kind his father used to smoke every night while drinking bourbon in front of the fire.
izabelle
In an empty room, with no company but the old, creaking wooden floors and the windows that stood as a gateway to the cold world outside, an armchair sat, caked in dust. The one who once sat reading in it a long forgotten memory.
I sit in the faded blue armchair, the sound of loud, joyful conversations between family reunited for Thanksgiving. My stomach is looking forwards to turkey and pie, but also the warmth of sitting around a table as a whole family. Ever since my family was virtually ripped in half, these times are particularly coveted.
Ada
I like armchairs, especially wingback armchairs. They were developed back in the days before proper heating and were designed to cut off drafts what might cause a cold or flu. In those days people died of simple things like colds which could quickly turn into a deadly respiratory infection.
He set the smoking quellazaire onto the dark mahogany of the desk and noticed something peculiar and compelling. The curls of smoke seemed like the living counterparts of the swirls in the wood; one was the cold hieroglyph on the wall of the tomb. The other was the wild priest, dancing a ritual in a gust of wind. But he saw there, too, that the spry ringlets, twirling and twisting, full of invisible energy, slowed and calmed. As the fire at the tip cooled, the line of dancers rose heavily, hunched over themselves, laboring to lift their weight up. He watched, horrified; he felt as he did when watching a perfect scene in a brilliant play, that the total truth of his soul was known and being acted out before him. The playwright knew him perfectly, had perhaps gone before him into the same troubles, and as frightened as he was to know, he had to watch, to see his future in that little sideshow on the desk. The heaving lumps of tired smoke convulsed–the cigarette was near its end–then formed a straight, thin line that looked to him like flags being pulled from a magician’s sleeve. Til the last one slipped up into the air and evaporated, the cadaver of the burnt filter laying in the black swirls of mahogany. His heart calmed. He sighed and pushed his chair from the desk, wheeled out into the darkness of the room.
‘There are many things one would expect to find in an armchair’, boomed my Aunt, ‘but a ferret is not one of them!’
I looked down at my feet, nestled as they were in the squalor that was my bedsit floor. The good bit about being a student was freedom from parents. The bad bit was the sudden appearance at the door of relatives. At least this time I was fully clothed.
Angus Rose
THe one which gives a cosy feeling and so much of comfort with our elbows rested on the arm, theryby giving our body maintain the right posture while sitting. Arm chairs are always the choice most of them would opt for
bindhumenon
Grandma’s armchair sits under a pile of boxes: things that are being sent away to the homes of her descendants. Grandma does not sit there, nor does she rest in the bed piled high with trinkets that couldn’t possibly have fit in one room. Grandma watches over us as we sort through her clothing and pick and choose what stays here with us, and what pieces of her we send to the Philippines to take care of family we’ve never met.
Please help the people of the Philippines after the disastrous typhoon they have faced.
He leaned on the armchair and it broke. ” Ouch! ” He yelled. His wife came running from the kitchen to find out what had happened. She found him on the floor clutching at his arm. She knelt beside him and looked at his arm, “Are you okay?”
the armchair was rocking back, but not forth and there was something so persistant about the movement that really got grandpa’s nerves. he wouldn’t say a word; the armchair did all the speaking. and the cat meowed. looked left. then right. then it all stopped. and the cat was gone.
I come in the dark cold room. As i slowly walk around the room to find my way, i can faintly see light coming through a window. There where the light shined was an old red wooden armchair.
attention i try to garner
while hiding behind armor
it’s like I’m trying to barter
to a t-rex with an armchair
in a dream you see a calm stare
awake to use your palm hair
to stop that alarm blear
and then get eating by a darn bear
imagine a bar where
you drink and your mar stares
suddenly you hear a far snare
signalling a sexy bar dare
I’m an armchair
watch your arm there!
it’s not your loose hair, it’s our hair!
watch out there’s a car there!
i’m hitting this armchair
because words are hard paired
when you rhyme to pass cares
holding breath trying to scar air
what is an armchair
its a place for your ass yeah
to sit and think about past cares
but they’ve passed
i’m bored of this armchair
i want to part here
and go to spar bears
and rip apart mayors
for being ass pairs
i was sitting in an armchair
when i noticed an arm there
severed from our bear
he was hit by a car
I remember sitting in that huge arm chair. Gramps, three cousins, my brother, my sister, and I all crammed on one little chair reading Christmas stories. Love and joy were never as existent as then.
He wanted to take her in the armchair as soon as all the guests had left; her in that silly apron with the coffee beans all over it, her pearl necklace and earrings set, and nothing else.
It was a game waiting for the clock to run down. They were subtle enough to go unnoticed by most, their movements confined to a silent dance only they knew the steps to: a light touch when they slid past each other in the crowded kitchen, again when they found their seats at the table, and yet another when passing the green beans. They sent each other quick smoldering glances over turkey and stuffing. She teased him by licking a drop of errant cranberry sauce innocently off her finger, not even bothering to look at him as she did, but knowing full well he was watching. He countered by surprising everyone with a deep moan of pleasure when the pumpkin pie came out to the table. His mother may have caught on, but only arched an eye brow as he winked back, praising the rich sweetness of the homemade whipped cream as he did. He made sure to save some of it for later, oh yes.
She slouched down deeply into the armchair with her legs draped over the arm rests kicking her foot to the music.
He sat on that armchair everyday. There were few words that came from him, but his prescence felt warming and comforting. When he died, I tried to engulf myself in the ghost of him by sitting in the armchair, looking for that familar warmth. When all I got was a feeling of painful emptyness, I threw the armchair out, hoping I would forget.
Chairs usually don’t have armrest. But those ones that are use in school does. I remember them like itwas just yesterday. School years, especially in secondary high school. We used them everyday for lessons.
Now, standing in my old school, remembering highschool memories, I’ m back here to visit,
and get to know some people, for I am here not only to visit, but to teach. And eventually, I will always see those armchairs everyday.
I tip-toe downstairs, thanking myself for wearing socks. The wood flooring creaks and I cringe. The only light is from the small fireplace in the living room. I creep around the corner and smile. Rory dozes in an armchair in the corner of the room right next to the fire. His glasses are askew and his mouth is slightly open. The fire softly illuminates his face making his cheekbones and chin stand out. His usually dark brown hair looks slightly gold and auburn, too. I pick up the glasses and set them on a nearby table. He looks so calm and safe. Innocent. Something we were never allowed to be in our lives as operatives.
I sigh, dropping a kiss on his forehead. He stirs, placing his hand on the back of my neck, pulling me closer and pressing his lips to mine.
Alice slid into her favourite armchair and pulled her blanket tighter. The days had been slowly getting colder and today seemed to be the day that the clouds would break and snow would come falling down. She always preferred the winter months because they carried about a stillness to the world that could not be found in other seasons. However, it was only made better as it gave people an excuse to cuddle, wear comfy sweaters and drink hot chocolate.
She was so comfortable there. I remember sitting on her knee, little legs swaying off the edge. She would try to cover me with her knitted wool blanket, but I would always resist, opting for freedom. And though I was jostling her, she would do nothing but smile with those soft, loving eyes.
The man leaned back in the chair and lifted his cigar to his lips. When he exhaled, the smoke came out in rings indicative of his years of experience with the practice. He did not cough. His arm stretched, slowly, leisurely, over the back of the chair, extending past the end so his wrist was dangling and his weight was shifted into the chair.
He stroked his chin in contemplation, leaning back in the armchair. The ancient springs squeaked in protest under his weight.
I remember when my old friend told me
about the armchair she used to watch
as a little girl,
no older than seven,
and she told me something
about it. she told me the armchair,
or maybe the rocking chair? was
where she saw the ghosts in her house
and they talked with her,
sitting there
while she listened to them
and sometimes talked back
not knowing that it was scary.
He stretched his legs, carefully, so as not to be noticed. Moving slowly, he tried to stand without causing the armchair to creak. Tiptoeing out of the room, he used the bathroom and went to the kitchen for another can of beer. He was sure Billy had not noticed the armchair was available, had not even woken from his slumber on the sofa, but when he returned to the living room, there Billy was, snuggled up warmly in his armchair, fast asleep again, purring contentedly.
The chair was battered, and long, lovingly abused. Threadbare, it had seen only one genration of children, yes, but it had been a fort and a climbing fortress, a scratching post for generations of cats, a place for rest, storytime, and for the occasional console. It held a lifetime of experiences.
I sat in the armchair waiting for the day to arrive.
Its a big and fluffy armchair it was always green in my grandparent’s living room. I tore it once when I was six but noone noticed and i didn’t say anything about it. I always liked it but I never liked the color and then one day it was just gone and I felt like my childhood friend was missing for a while. What replaced it was a straight backed, stiffer chair that wasn’t as much of a hug when you sat down.
He’s sitting in the armchair with the sawed off shotgun in his lap. Whoever steps into the door next will get their heads blown off, he thinks to himself, grip tightening on the gun. It doesn’t even matter who it is. Beast or man, they’re all threats. He doesn’t have friends any more.
Jared sat back in his armchair, taking a sip of his coffee and cracking open the daily newspaper. It was an old person’s habit, everyone told him, Reading the obituaries. But you never knew what you might find. Who you might find. Or, more importantly, how you might find.
For instance, the second entry.
Louis Able, age 34, found chopped into pieces in a sewer on 96th street.
Now, this was how you started a morning.
I sat in the armchair with nothing to do. It was a dark leather color. There was a stain on the back but it was covered by a pink and orange pillow. I moved the pillow out of the way and snuggled into the chair. The chair smelled a bit old and musty but it was clean. I sat there for a while with my feet tucked underneath my legs.
I always remember childhood Thanksgivings….Poppo sitting in this big ole chair and I’m 6 or 7. The game is that Mom wants me to help clear the table or put my toys up or something. And Poppo says…”run over here and get on the ‘safe’ side!”
It’s our new model. The arm-wheelchair. Sleek and comfortable. It doesn’t look like you’re disabled, just like you’re lazy.
he was sitting in the armchair, looking around the room. the chair was bound in brown leather, and left him with a feeling of warmth and security – it smelled of tobacco, the kind his father used to smoke every night while drinking bourbon in front of the fire.
In an empty room, with no company but the old, creaking wooden floors and the windows that stood as a gateway to the cold world outside, an armchair sat, caked in dust. The one who once sat reading in it a long forgotten memory.
I sit in the faded blue armchair, the sound of loud, joyful conversations between family reunited for Thanksgiving. My stomach is looking forwards to turkey and pie, but also the warmth of sitting around a table as a whole family. Ever since my family was virtually ripped in half, these times are particularly coveted.
I like armchairs, especially wingback armchairs. They were developed back in the days before proper heating and were designed to cut off drafts what might cause a cold or flu. In those days people died of simple things like colds which could quickly turn into a deadly respiratory infection.
There is an armchair in the corner
of my room filled with books
millions of tiny worlds
all around the room
there are princes and pirates
boats and planes
there is stock market rates
and the life of a maiden
in my room filled with worlds
there is so much to explore
so hold on to yourself
you’ll be begging for more
He set the smoking quellazaire onto the dark mahogany of the desk and noticed something peculiar and compelling. The curls of smoke seemed like the living counterparts of the swirls in the wood; one was the cold hieroglyph on the wall of the tomb. The other was the wild priest, dancing a ritual in a gust of wind. But he saw there, too, that the spry ringlets, twirling and twisting, full of invisible energy, slowed and calmed. As the fire at the tip cooled, the line of dancers rose heavily, hunched over themselves, laboring to lift their weight up. He watched, horrified; he felt as he did when watching a perfect scene in a brilliant play, that the total truth of his soul was known and being acted out before him. The playwright knew him perfectly, had perhaps gone before him into the same troubles, and as frightened as he was to know, he had to watch, to see his future in that little sideshow on the desk. The heaving lumps of tired smoke convulsed–the cigarette was near its end–then formed a straight, thin line that looked to him like flags being pulled from a magician’s sleeve. Til the last one slipped up into the air and evaporated, the cadaver of the burnt filter laying in the black swirls of mahogany. His heart calmed. He sighed and pushed his chair from the desk, wheeled out into the darkness of the room.
‘There are many things one would expect to find in an armchair’, boomed my Aunt, ‘but a ferret is not one of them!’
I looked down at my feet, nestled as they were in the squalor that was my bedsit floor. The good bit about being a student was freedom from parents. The bad bit was the sudden appearance at the door of relatives. At least this time I was fully clothed.
THe one which gives a cosy feeling and so much of comfort with our elbows rested on the arm, theryby giving our body maintain the right posture while sitting. Arm chairs are always the choice most of them would opt for
Grandma’s armchair sits under a pile of boxes: things that are being sent away to the homes of her descendants. Grandma does not sit there, nor does she rest in the bed piled high with trinkets that couldn’t possibly have fit in one room. Grandma watches over us as we sort through her clothing and pick and choose what stays here with us, and what pieces of her we send to the Philippines to take care of family we’ve never met.
Please help the people of the Philippines after the disastrous typhoon they have faced.