“Close your eyes,” he says, leading her by the hand into his workshop. Running short of things to transform he has turned to The Chair.
It’s the only thing she kept from her father’s house, and where she went to cry, barricaded by boxes in the corner of the spare room. The leather, with its dad-shaped indentations, enfolded her in a hug.
The chair is beautiful now, reupholstered in a fabric she salivated over in a magazine. The smells of whisky, tobacco and childhood have gone. She won’t sit in it.
Her father never liked him. Neither does she, now.
Alison Wassell is a micro, flash, and short story writer from the UK. She has been published by Reflex Fiction, Retreat West, The Cabinet of Heed, and Litro. Twitter: @lilysslave.
The Centifictionist 
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