Like another dimension, the porch invites us across the threshold. We can obverse the world from here. Or be observed. Every porch needs a chair to complete this transportation from the world.
Writers explored the world of a porch with a chair this week. As you might suspect, the responding stories include many different porches. Cross over and read awhile.
The following stories are based on the November 2, 2017 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story a chair on a porch.
The Red Chair by Lisa Listwa
Rob’s heart beat faster as he parked his pickup and climbed the steps to the porch. The little red chair sitting in the corner couldn’t be the same one he lost years ago, but he had to ask.
It had been his dad’s chair first, then his. Rob couldn’t remember if it was lost by accident or thrown away on purpose, but he wished he still had it. The same could be said of his dad, if truth be told.
“Ma’am?” he said to the woman behind the screen door, “I was wondering about the red chair…”
Just Her Size by Kerry E.B. Black
The sight nearly made Kai cry. A child-sized wooden rocking chair for which she’d searched.
“Just what the doctor ordered.”
Kai didn’t haggle, simply handed over the asked for amount and hugged the chair with possessive eagerness. It fit between the pediatric wheelchair and the unused walker in her van’s trunk.
She set it beside their fireplace, certain the view included access to the television and allowed for easy conversation. When her daughter arrived home from school, Kai ushered her inside.
The child squealed with delight. A chair just her size which could help improve her muscle control.
Chair on the Porch by Deborah Lee
Lora steps out of the SUV and inhales deeply, the scent of dead leaves and humus and apples, oddly enough. She doesn’t remember apple trees around here.
She picks through brambles to the overgrown cabin. How many years since anyone has been here, this jewel in the woods, where they used to hide from civilization?
She eases into the cobwebbed chair on the tiny porch. She has just settled her gaze on the autumn-brilliant tree line when a splintering crash lands her on the plank boards.
Maybe you can go home again, but you have to fix it first.
A Chair on the Porch by Ruchira Khanna
“Can’t find the girl anywhere in the house. Aha! Must be on the porch on her old ragged chair.” Mom muttered as she stepped towards the patio.
“Cathedra, Alison did not invite me to her b’day party and instead poked fun at my dress.”
Maggi whimpered as she caressed the arm of the chair.
“She is not my friend anymore!”
Wiping her tears, “But you will always be my pal since you are here to listen to my pain and joys.”
Mom overheard and changed her opinion. She was now in awe of the chair!
Rock On by Sherri Matthews
Rain pelted the window like small stones.
“Will Jax find his way home in this?” Andy ran his face across his sleeve in a failed attempt to stem his tears.
“Oh Honey, he’s a cat, no amount of rain will keep him away.”
“But mama…” Andy wailed.
A tap came at the door. Then another; and again. Rhythmic. It took a few more before mother realised it was the tap of the rocking chair on the porch.
She edged open the door and found a soggy ball of Jax fur curled up on the rocker like he’d never left.
Empty Rocker by Diana Ngai
John sank into the porch rocker, pulling a blanket over his lap; the cat looked to John expectantly. “I miss her, too,” he whispered as he reached to scratch its furry chin. John closed his eyes and recalled they way she snuggled in his lap as they read stories and rocked together. Later, at ten-years-old, she had sat and read on her own.
The rocker had been empty for almost a year now; no one had dared to disturb the dust. But, today’s news reported another bullet, another daughter taken. John came back to the chair and wept.
Flash Fiction by Ritu Bhathal
Nanna would always be sat there in her chair on the porch.
I would spend hours with her, sat at her feet as a child, playing with my dolls, or reading a book. Sometimes she’d read me a story.
As I got older, she was still there, my sounding board, always giving me sage, simple advice for any problems I was facing.
Today I really need her. It’s a big step I’m about to take. I only wish she was still here…
Looking over, the empty rocking chair slowly creaks, as if encouraging me.
See, she is still here.
Flash Fiction by FloridaBorne
Growing up in the south, porches extended around the house and windows were so large that breezes flew freely through each room. Shotgun doors meant you could run from the front yard to the back in a straight line and race through trees surrounding the house with shade.
Grandma sat in her rocker watching a golden sun pour across the earth from the front door. We awoke to her rocker creaking near our back porch window.
Nowadays, people cut all the trees down, have a few small windows, use air-conditioning, and complain about the heat. I miss common sense.
Porch by Judy E. Martin
Amelia sank into the overstuffed chair which enveloped her body with warmth.
“The, ahem, Doctor will be with you shortly, Miss.”
Nervously, twisting her rings, Amelia’s stomach lurched contemplating what she was about to do.
Distracting herself from the pounding in her head, she glanced around the porch. Comfortable and homely, like any other house in a pleasant neighbourhood. Only it wasn’t. The odorous smell of bleach pervaded the room; Amelia shuddered.
“How many desperate women had sat on this chair awaiting their fate?”
“Good morning Ms Johnson.”
“It’s Sergeant actually. I am arresting you on suspicion of murder…”
Where Stories Begin by Charli Mills
Between Danni and the front door sagged a small front porch. Inside the cabin lived a former log-skidder. Rumor had it Old Man Moe was blind, but his stories of the Great Fires of 1910 remained vivid.
“Take a chair,” spoke a voice behind her.
Danni startled, not hearing the man with foggy eyes ride up on a mule. “Moe, I’m the Forest Service archeologist.”
Moe slid from the saddle as if sighted, and walked confidently up the decrepit stairs to one of two rickety wooden chairs. He patted the one next to him. “Stories begin here Doc Gordon.”
The Chair on the Porch by Crystal Cook
When the autumn winds blew, the old rocking chair came to life and creaked a ghostly sound, familiar and comforting.
Through the window she watched the weathered wooden armrest gently come into view and disappear again, like the ebb and flow of her memories.
When she closed her eyes, she’d imagine him sitting there with the Sunday paper on his lap, rocking to the rhythm of her beating heart.
She tolerated the still, summer days knowing the season would soon enough change and the winds would come, bringing with them, her fading memory of him.
The Notice by Colleen Chesebro
Zane leaned back in his chair. He popped a handful of sunflower seeds into one side of his mouth while spitting out the shells with the other. Zane had much to mull over, and the porch offered no judgments.
The government warning said using Neonicotinoids in the seed treatments for the wheat crop was the reason the bees were dying. It was nonsense, and it rankled against his understanding of how insecticides worked.
He was a farmer, and the Feds didn’t know how to grow wheat. He ripped up the notice and let the scraps blow in the wind.
Porch Settin by Elliott Lyngreen
The porch swing was made of logs. There, Elsie passed fyre to the aromatic Heather Glastonbury like a powerful message.
Patrick Hamilton and Bowen traded cards for beer sips on a capstone.
Garrison Grantley discussed various lyrics stemmed from radio speakers perfectly screened through, surrounding Chuck Koehler’s deep reflections.
“Wanna hit, Lynk?” Laurian softened me as the flame recourse around the ledges and wide opening at the stairs from one to the next within arms reaches.
The metronome swinging, sneaked the crumbling indifference exchanging Elsie’s dreams for Heather’s observation of the traffic and streetlights forming a smiley face.
The Chair by Hugh Roberts
As the sun set, Agatha Brunell sat in her favourite chair knowing that her life was about to end.
Her sixty-nine years of life had been amazing. She’d never allowed anyone to get the better of her. Now, however, she knew it was time to leave her favourite lumpy chair for the very last time.
“Goodbye, chair,” she said, as she placed the gun to her head. “You were my saviour and the perfect place to hide the hair of my victims.”
As the police closed in, the sound of the gun told them they were too late.
Flash Fiction by Pensitivity
Emotional blackmail, cheating spouses, bootleg liquor, illicit meetings, pregnant minors whisked away in the middle of the night, moonlight flits to avoid debt collectors, whispered secrets, drunken brawls, child and animal abuse. The list was endless.
There was only one witness.
The creaking rocking chair gave him away and he was found murdered in it on his porch, his throat slit from ear to ear.
The owner of number 12 thought he’d got away with it as there was no evidence.
As he beat his wife for burning his supper, the chair on the porch creaked and started to rock.
The Porch by Annette Rochelle Aben
Don walked his faithful companion of 18 years across the street. He and Duke were just going to sit on the white, wicker rocker until Nancy got home from work.
Making himself comfortable, Don looked back at the unfamiliar house he had just come out of and wondered who lived there. The warm, late summer sun was going behind Nancy’s house and it was chilly. He knew she’d be home soon.
Lori turned onto her street and noticed Don and Duke on her porch. They appeared to be napping, just like they did most days since her mom’s funeral.
Montressor House by Stephanie Ascough
Penelope found the chair on the old house’s back porch. Strange, for an armchair to sit outside a historical museum. She looked over her shoulder. The tour guide’s muffled voice faded behind the porch door.
“I feel like Goldilocks,” Penelope said. The armchair enveloped her in the deep, cushioned seat. Over the railing, sunlight sparkled on the lake and the skyscrapers of downtown. A splash caught her attention. Was it the famed lake monster of Montressor House? Penelope squinted, scanning the water eagerly when the voice spoke. Downtown disappeared in sudden mist.
“Well, you know what happened to Goldilocks.”
Serenity Steeple Chase by Ruth Cox
In the dark of night while sitting alone on the front porch in an old rocking lawn chair I find I feel serenity. I need only look to the sky; chase the steeple with mine eyes.
Mesmerized by the sight of the light, I am mindful of the moment.
At the steeple of peace I stare as I rock to and fro in my chair. Back and forth, and once again.
I pause, listen to the nothingness in the still of the night.
Silence steals my serenity.
Come Sunday morning this girl’s going to church!
The Old Chair by Michael
When his dad died, and he inherited the house, there were so many reminders of his dad. The one that impacted on him the most was the old wicker chair on the front porch. It was here that his dad sat most afternoons watching the neighbourhood go by. The two of them had sat there in his dad’s declining years talking over world issues and reminiscing about the good old days of his childhood. The old chair was plenty worn, but he left it there. He found he needed it there, if made him feel close to his dad.
Just in Time by Jack Schuyler
I was told I could find you here, that you never left this shack. And I drove for hours across this God-forsaken plain, to find you sitting there in that chair on the porch. Because you never do leave this shack, and now you never will. The chair is slumped, and your body sprawls uncomfortably limp over its broken frame. Fresh blood seeps from those fatal wounds, fresh bullet holes decorate the wall, and a fresh trail of dust points opposite the way I came.
I came just in time.
Just in time to miss you and your killer.
Reclining Line by Line by JulesPaige
On the train heading south, at least when there’s daylight,
one can see a variety of porches. Front and back. As we
rock to the rhythm of the rails we wonder about how they
manage with hearing all the lonesome whistles and rickety
rack noise – however briefly passing at seventy or close to
eighty miles an hour.
How about that old Victorian. White with green trim? Who
sits back and stargazes, or sips their morning brew
wrapped in dew’s shawl?
Part of traveling by train is imagining whose setting a spell,
where. And what they’re thinking as we pass…
Three Clinics by Bill Engleson
The first clinic didn’t have a porch. Nestled in the woods, you stepped right in from the trail to a parlour with a small electric heater.
It was very inviting.
The second clinic had a fine porch with three cushioned chairs and looked southwest over the highway. The porch was draped with sweet grapes in the summer and by the sagging limbs of a giant monkey tree year-round.
The third clinic was the second clinic, moved years later to a permanent acre of land a kilometre away. The front porch became the rear porch and sat in permanent shade.
Jaded Shade by JulesPaige
This was suppose to be the summer that the porch got
cleaned out. Two or was it three years now that the
space had become a storage unit for her things. Stuff
that had to be removed from her studio apartment. Add
that to leftover toys from children and even boxes from
when the living room was repainted.
In the porch still; birdseed, tools, bikes, and wood stacked
for fireplace use. Along with her chair, now only holding her
memories. Embroidered threads fading, scarred from use,
not worth reupholstering. Was it going to be a winter home
The Untold by D. Avery
The open porch was curtained by the rain that sheeted off the roof, drilling a trough underneath the eaves. Behind this curtain Hope rocked slightly, pushing against the floorboards with her toes, her father beside her in his chair. A third cane rocker sat empty.
“It’s a good porch”, he said, “Best part of this two-story house.”
“Yup”, agreed Hope. Recognizing the prelude, she looked forward to hearing his stories. Rain drummed the porch roof overhead.
A sudden gust of wind rent the curtain, whipped them with cold rain, rocked the empty chair.
“Daddy, tell a story about Mommy.”
Second Story by D. Avery
“I don’t really know that story Hope. That’s for her to tell. When she comes back.”
“She doesn’t tell stories like you do. She’s quiet.”
“How’d you meet her, Daddy?”
“You know that story Hope. Comin’ back from my fishing trip up in Quebec I picked up a hitchhiker. At the border she had me pretend we were together so she wouldn’t get questioned too much.”
“And after, she said she wanted to keep pretending.”
“And she came back with you to the farm and you thought she was never gonna leave.”
“Yup. That’s what I thought.”
Life Changes by Ann Edall-Robson
You came to me for quiet moments to write your thoughts. We had interludes in our time together when you introduced me to your family as it grew. Boisterous and fun-loving, they clambered over my seat and jumped from my back. Even as the seasons changed, you made time for me. Dusting the leaves away in the fall and clearing the snow in winter. Life changes for all of us. I see you watching me from within your confines, no longer able to make your way down the path to be with me. I miss our time together.
Flash Fiction by Robbie Cheadle
She sat in her large wicker chair on the porch. The chair was so large it seemed to envelop her small frame. Her fragile look and small stature belied her strength of spirit. She was the matriarch. The woman who held the threads of the entire family firmly in her delicate hands. It was from her that her girls had learned to cook, sew and clean. It was also from her that they had each developed a love of books and reading and had gained the ambition to become educated. She sat quietly, basking in their admiration and love.
Flash Fiction by Pete Fanning
Amy’s friends laughed when she bought the splintered wicker chair at a yard sale. Hideous, they said, much too bulky for her tiny outdoor space. They reminded her how she couldn’t sit still.
But Amy bought the chair, and a flowery cushion to go with it.
And sitting still? Sure, her foot bounced along whenever she read a thriller in the chair. She squirmed and shimmied when a decent song hit Pandora. But her heart did most of the heavy lifting, in that chair, as Amy thought back to those many lazy afternoons on the porch with her grandfather.
Supernatural Hair by Anne Goodwin
The chair creaks like old knees, as it rock-a-bye-babys me back and forth, the gentle rhythm drowning my so-much-to-do. Pushed back and farther back, beyond the patio, the rose garden, the vegetable plot. Responsibility retreats beyond the fence, the neighbours’ house, the town. Over fields onto moors and farther, to where the land meets the sea. I could sit and rock and watch the spinach grow.
A clock chimes the work hour. Reluctantly, I rise. And stall. My head jerked back, chairbound by ropes of tangled hair. My supernatural hair knows my needs better than my brain.
Porch Lore by Geoff Le Pard
‘Where were you just now?’
‘You were miles away.’
‘I feel I’ve been gone ages.’
‘You had that thousand-mile stare.’
‘Dad was like that. He’d sit on his rocker and disappear somewhere. I used to think how important it must be.’
‘Life, the Universe…’
Mary laughed. ‘And everything. Something like that. I thought if he was that far away it had to be really big.’
‘And you? What were your big thoughts?’
‘Me? I wasn’t thinking about anything, not really. Just an empty head.’
‘I guess sometimes they’re the most profound moments.’
‘I miss him, Paul.’
Chatting on the Porch by Irene Waters
Mormor sat on the porch. The seat Morfar had occupied was vacant. Lillian didn’t remember her grandfather but in her imagination Mormor’s hands intertwined with his, her eyes fluttering and hearts racing. As time past, their hands still held, the glances were loving and hearts beat in happy unison. “Can I join you Mormor?” Her grandmother patted the seat and Lilian sat. She told her about her day at school and the stick insect she’d found on the way home.
“Who you talking to Lilian?” Her mother broke the easy rapport.
“Lillian love, she died twelve years ago.”
Porch Sittin’ by Norah Colvin
“There you are. What’re you doing out here?”
“Just sitting. Enjoying’ the cool.”
“Everyone’s been looking for you. Will you be coming back inside?”
“Mind if I sit too?”
“You thinking about Jim?”
“He was a good man.”
“It’s near three years now.”
“Today’s his birthday. Would’ve been thirty-six.”
“I still don’t understand –”
“There’s no reason. Wrong place at the wrong time is all.”
“But it’s not fair.”
“Life’s never fair. Will you ever love me like you loved Jim?”
“Oh honey, I do. It’s just hard on his birthday.”
A Porch, A Chair, A Dog by Joe Owens
Clara stood in the kitchen sipping her coffee as she studied her husband’s favorite rocker. It remained in its normal place on the porch with his old dog Scout also in his regular place.
Clara could sense Casey, her adult daughter approach on her right. Casey was in to visit, worried about her widowed mother and how she was adjusting.
“He believes Henry will return at any time,” Clara said.
“Poor Scout, he has no idea what ha happened to his master.”
“How long do you think he’ll wait?”
“Until he is out of days too!”
No Goodbye by Juliet Nubel
It was the most beautiful armchair in the whole house. Carefully crafted from a thick coppery leather, it had softened and smoothed since it had left the shop all those years ago. A faded, red, feather-filled cushion sat far back into its spine, rubbed shiny where her back had pressed hard against it every day, for as long as they could all remember.
They would have loved to drop wearily into its comforting warmth, but it had sat empty for months, ever since she had slipped slowly from its embrace onto the cool porch floor, without even saying goodbye.
Get It Write by D. Avery
“Kid, what are you doin’?”
“Settin’ up croquet wickets.”
“Well, we got lots a folks comin’ by the ranch these days, an I reckon they’ll be lookin’ fer somethin’ ta do, what with the rodeo packin’ up.”
“Yeah, croquet. A good, relaxin’ activity. Fer the folks comin’ by the ranch.
“Did ya git bucked, Kid, bump yer head?
“Shorty mentioned somethin’ ‘bout croquet on the ranch.”
“She mentioned crochet, but-”
“Oh yeah, yer right Pal. Crochet and crafting. Well, that’s fine. We can all set on the porch and stitch.”
“Think you dropped a stitch, Kid.”