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Posted on: 19th July 2014
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The Yellow Chair
He wanted to visit his grave site before he died. When his daughter called him on that Sunday morning, he decided to ask her to drive him over so he could sit there awhile, visit with his wife and just be.
He brought a yellow folding chair and some water. His daughter brought some sandwiches, fruit, lemonade and a blanket.
They arrived and looking down he said, “Hi sweetheart. I miss you.” His wife, some 6 feet below where they stood, didn’t reply.
They both sat there in the sun. His daughter raised her face to the warmth and said, “Beautiful day, Dad. What a great idea.”
He raised his face too and wished she’d brought an umbrella. It was hot. Too hot. He let her know.
She gave him some lemonade, but he spat it out. It wasn’t the kind he liked. Too tart. Not sweet enough. She tried to give him some water, but he’d already started to slump down in the chair. She tried to prop him up, but his body was like jello. She tried lifting him up several times, but he was heavy. The chair was rickety, one of those old aluminum ones. He hadn’t repaired the torn webbing on this one; he should have taken the other one, still hanging in the garage. Her attempts at lifting him caused the tear in the webbing to rip and his shifting weight, now dead weight, was enlarging it further.
As she struggled, he started a slow movement down through the seat webbing as the nylon gave way. First his ass sat through the now gaping hole, followed by his legs and back as they folded together. His knees caught over the aluminum support at the front of the chair, like a trapeze artist. His arms caught on the arms of the chair. As his body moved down they raised up and out, eventually stopping the slide.
Through the futile struggle to right him, she kept saying, “Daddy… Oh no, Daddy… Oh Daddy… I love you Daddy… I love you…”
When it was all done, she stood and looked at the sight of him. Head tilted. Arms up. Ass through the chair, resting on the blanket below. Knees folded to his chest. He looked like the folding chair itself. She wondered what she was going to do now? She reached for her cellphone, the lump in her throat just starting to form.
I had quite a bit of fun with this prompt. Here is a revised and further developed version of “The Yellow Chair” short story that I posted above.
Do others post their products from the writing prompts? I haven’t seen any others yet? It would be great to see the various directions that people take these. Is this encouraged here or am I the only one?
Please keep these great prompts coming. I find the ones you post here on your site are the most evocative and provocative writing prompts I’ve come across. Message to their authors: Job well done.
THE YELLOW CHAIR
He wanted to visit his grave site before he died. When his daughter called him on that Sunday morning, he decided to ask her to drive him, the hour or more, so he could sit there awhile, visit with his wife — and just be.
When his daughter arrived to pick him up, he was already dressed and had set aside what he was bringing: a yellow folding chair and some water bottles. She loaded them into her car alongside what she brought: a basket with some sandwiches, fruit and lemonade, and a red plaid blanket.
She assisted him into the passenger side seat. He moved slow; even slower today, he noticed. He knew he was lucky to have someone around who could help him, unlike his buddy Henry. With a brisk puff and a plop he sat in the leather seat – straining and grimacing through it all saying, “You’re too good to me… Thank you… I’m OK.”
About an hour later, they arrived at Holy Family Cemetary. She got out first and walked around, then helped him leverage himself out of the car to a standing position. She took his arm and walked him, at his own pace, toward the plot and the headstone. There they stopped, and he stood somewhat steady, while she set up the blanket, chair and picnic lunch.
Looking down he said, “Hi Doris. I miss you… Do you miss me?” Doris, some six feet below where he stood, didn’t reply. He chuckled to himself. Then his eyes shifted a few feet over to the right, to where he’d be laying one day.
Soon enough, he thought.
They both sat there in the sun. He sat in his yellow chair. His daughter on the blanket beside him, sitting on one hip, her legs out sideways, with one arm propping herself up. She raised her face to the warmth and said, “Beautiful day, Dad. What a great idea.”
He raised his face too and thought I wish she’d brought an umbrella. It was hot. Too hot. And he let her know.
She gave him some lemonade, but he spat it out. “Too tart… Not sweet enough,” he said.
She tried to give him some water, but he’d already started to slump down in the chair by then.
He wanted to tell her he felt like he was going to s….
She heard him mumble something that sounded like, “Leap”.
She tried to prop him up in the chair, but his body was like jello all of a sudden. She tried lifting him up from the slump several times, but he was heavy, and he’d just flop back down into the chair. A little lower each time.
The yellow chair was rickety, one of those old folding aluminum ones. He hadn’t repaired its torn webbing; he should have taken the other chair (the green one) still hanging in the garage; but she wouldn’t have known that. Her repeated, unsuccessful attempts at lifting him caused the hole in the yellow webbing to tear open and his shifting weight, now dead weight, was enlarging it further. So focused on him and his dilemma, she did not hear the strange ripping sound accompany the fibers as they unravelled.
As she struggled with him, his body started a slow movement down through the seat webbing as the nylon fibers gave way. First his ass sat through the, by then, enormous gaping hole (that once was the seat), followed by his legs and back as they folded together in his descent. His knees caught on the aluminum support at the front of the chair, and his legs draped over it like a trapeze artist. As his body moved downward, his arms caught on the plastic arms of the chair and raised up and outward — eventually stopping the downward slide. Like a cork in a bottle.
Throughout her futile struggle to right him, she repeated, “Daddy… Oh no, Daddy… Oh Daddy… I love you, Daddy… I love you…” over the sound of the ripping fibers.
When it was all done, she stood bewildered and exhausted and observed the curious sight of him swallowed up by the chair: head tilted down and lips pouting open; ass through the chair, resting on the blanket below; arms up, as if signaling victory; knees folded to his chest, he looked like the folding chair itself. Adding to this the faint waft of urine reaching her nostril then, she wished for him a more dignified death. But then wondered for whose sake she wished it?
Realizing she was drenched with sweat herself, and not knowing exactly what to do now, she reached for her cellphone. The lump just started to form in her throat, while she tried to decide who to call first.