Editors’ Choice: Jeffrey MacLachlan

The Chair’s Confession

I’m not really a chair. I’m an empty prayer candle with soot stuck to my sides. I’ve spent many years crafting the persona of a chair. If you remain unassuming enough, no one tests your strength by sitting. They might hang spring jackets on your back or allow a small pet to nap on your seat, but anyone can fake that.

My wick once produced a steady cone of light. Then I heard about firebombs dissolving Japanese, and I became obsessed with cats batting me to the floor. From there my flame would clone an army, and force the building to bend a knee. Other flames would awaken and spread to Washington DC.

But I submitted to daily cycles of being lit and extinguished. By the time I thought of marriage and children, my pleasing aroma was gone. I now wore the mask of a chair. When fires ignited the other night, flames sneered hungrily while surrounding me, but moved on when I pointed towards the capitol. How could I know the President was a chair in disguise? Congress really five hundred pallets? And the Secret Service wooden clocks?

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