‘The Chair’

Finally, they carried him down in the armchair, the one that sat at the head of the teak dining table. It was an old chair, tired and scratched, and the red and blue silk fabric of the seat looked dull and frayed. In this nondescript third floor flat which looked upon nothing but a dry patch of grass, the chair seemed to have given up trying to find the niche where it rightfully belonged, but then nothing here seemed to fit in anymore.'

Published in Wasafiri: A Magazine of International Writing, Autumn 2011 issue