Jodo Kast Jul 21, 2012
The darkness captured his imagination in an immaterial cage stronger than the hardiest of materials. A softly supine-loving sofa became imbued with long arms that stretched through the darkness, with padded hands and spongy fingers that grasped none too softly. The fear of being grabbed by a long arm brought frozen pints into his heart; they became lodged in his chest. It was a heavy fear. Powerful slaps on the floor and thuds against the walls made a song eerie enough to satisfy a limb-licking troll. Busy scratching on the floor from knobby points of keratin accompanied the merry mayhem.
David Typson slowly backed out of the room, careful to fully lift each foot off the floor, and place it softly. Very softly. He was worried about the ears that slither on the walls like snails. The ears help the long arms because they are careless. A morsel, perhaps a piece of lung or string of tendon, can be found on the floor. So the ears help, for they are always hungry. He dashed for the light switch and smashed his knee into a metal table. A little pain in the patella was worth it. With the lights on, the long arms retreated and the ears decanted into the seams and cracks on the walls.
Eighty years previously David’s great grandmother had once scolded a sofa. It was an unruly sofa. One of the cushions was leaking feathers at a prodigious rate. Every time Grizelda Amlip sat on the sofa, she had to be careful to sit on the right side.
“This is my sinister sofa,” she used to tell houseguests. “You’ll learn of its sins if you sit on the left cushion.”
People would visit Grizelda just to see the feathers flying through the air. Naturally, no one listened to her warnings, especially the Quirply children.
“I’m makin’ an Indian hat!” said Sampson Quirply.
“Indians don’t wear hats,” corrected Simon Quirply.
“Oh yes they do,” commented Sara Quirply (who wasn’t really there).
The Quirply children had Grizelda picking up feathers all day. She used them in combination with her knitting hobby to sell pillows. It was a lively enterprise and no one questioned how the couch replenished feathers.
On the day of the scolding, Grizelda had sat rather heavily, and none too lightly. It was a great sitting of intense rump resting that was cut short by a cloud of feathers.
“You slovenly sofa! Pick up this mess at once!” she roared uproariously. It was such a ruckus that the sofa listened. It slowly extended arms and tried to pick up the feathers. Grizelda, none too impressed, slapped the arms at once. “I can’t have you groping about the room. You’ll scare the houseguests.”
Chagrined, the sofa withdrew its arms but kept its ears on the wall.
One hundred thousand years ago a rogue proton passed through the brain of Deep Grunt, the Caveman. The proton had barreled right through the atmosphere, completely unperturbed. Deep Grunt was thinking of a better way to sit upon the floor of the cave as the proton altered his DNA. This caused a mutation that was inherited by his children. They also sat on the floor and thought of a better way to sit. One day Little Grunt killed a turkey with his favorite rock. He plucked the feathers and brought them into the cave. His siblings (which were nearly dead) laid upon the feathers. Little Grunt got a great idea. He realized the feathers provided for more comfort than the dirt floor, and if they could make dirt more comfortable, then they could make rocks more comfortable. Thus, Little Grunt had invented the sofa by placing feathers on large rocks.
