An old wine stain
The chair had four rounded legs; tapered cylinders, widest where the four supports met the plane of the seat. Built from cheap materials; the modest wood, which under the force of a fingernail would fracture into soft splinters, was porous to the touch. Woven rope formed a monochrome chessboard which sagged sadly; stretched and baggy in the centre from excessive use or perhaps abuse from a weight which exceeded the chair's expected load. At the edges of the seat the rope itself had began to fray. The formation of negative space developed on the perimeter where threadbare and snapped sinews gave way to holes. Its back, of simple design, incorporated three slats of equal length and girth; held parallel between two larger beams which for purposes of description are analogous to the legs if not for their conflicting functions. The chair was placed somewhat in the middle of the single-roomed apartment. Depending on the viewers taste the room sat somewhere between minimalist and anaemic: objectively, it fulfilled the basic requirements of a living space.
Against the wall with no doors but one singular window stood a desk which appeared to be the chair's older brother. Three fragile yet relatively large in volume legs stood hard against the flooring, the fourth leg, the runt, stood stunted. It could not be seen if the leg was too modest in size or the floor hollowed beneath it. A weathered facedown paperback connected the table to the unfinished flooring, words anchored the warped shape in virtue of their repository. The spine of the book was cracked and broken making it impossible to see what was written down the length of the book, the author's name lost in the fragility of the chosen binding method. The reverse, hatched with the whitened lines of bends and tears, showed no text except legal information and a series of black and white bars, floating uniformly above a stream of unintelligible numbers. Upon the desk lay a thin ruled legal pad. Settled on the yellowed paper itself; a fine black marker with the lid attached. The paper itself was untarnished.
Opposite the desk was a door and nothing lay in between the two except for the chair and an old wine stain that had soaked deeply into the bare unfinished wood. The edge of the stain showed signs of sandpaper damage where lighter raw wood stood up through the reddened blemish. The door itself was flat, painted with a plastic-white varnished finish. It owned no remarkable features except a lone swelling of a door handle, round in shape and greyed-silver in colour. In the centre of the handle was a slit designed for a key. Upon closer inspection an uneven mark at central eye-level could be seen; a scar existing from where a peeping hole had been removed and filled in. Of course it is subjective as to whether this particular stigma was remarkable at all.
The wall to the left of the desk (while looking to the door) contained the kitchen. From out of the window above the desk, through the single thin pane, shone a slim cut of light dancing through suspended dust hanging in the air; as though each point was hung from invisible elastic strings, oscillating, delicately swirling in microscopic pirouettes. The dust, liberated skin and perhaps fibres from yellow legal pads, glistened a gentle trail eventually settling on a small fridge that sat firmly on the work-surface. The fridge, empty of contents, had little function other than to fill the small room with it's gentle humming. A thin film of dust and grease sat on the fridge, a veil of past meals cooked; oil thrown into the air by heat currents and settling as half eaten meals sat drying to porcelain. The dried grease was disturbed on the left hand side of the door. Four clean lines, a ghost's handprint, where the door had been pulled open without the use of the handle. A thumb mark could be seen on the side edge of the door. Two electrical rings of two different radii lay built into the counter, in the centre of each ring lay a fading red mark of equal area. On the smaller of the two hobs the red mark shone, a moon suspended in a starless sky. Small hard lumps of fat sat happily by the temperature controls where oil had jumped from pans and condensed on the cool metal plating. Surprisingly there was no oven situated below but just a small plywood cupboard filled with cleaning products and a thin roll of black plastic bags.
Between the hob and the fridge was a shallow sink: it consisted of a plug hole, a chain (akin to those used to stop banks from loosing their pens) and two taps; which were connected to two oranged pipe lines that ran up to the ceiling, naked and exposed. The plug hole was in fact a metal disc with 8 smaller holes cut into the material, in the centre of the smaller holes was a single screw. A black skin was growing across the sides of the sink, old seaweed on beach stones, still wet from the retreating tide. On the left tap was a small 'H' pressed into red plastic held under an unmarked transparent disc. The right tap similarly and unsurprisingly held a small blue coin with an impressed 'C'. Mould was growing around where the taps met the sink. The chain dangled into the basin, presumably it once held a plug but it's vocation now was to fish down hookless into the depths of the drain. The flaking water pipes stretched up and across the ceiling, held in by regular brackets bolted into the concrete upper surface by crumbling screws. They tunnelled through the opposite wall where a door prevented any insight to what lay beyond it, presumably the bathroom but it seems careless to assume.
To the left of the (for sake of conversation) bathroom door hung a canvas. Rectangular in shape, the stretched cotton was a ridiculous aesthetic overindulgence; relative to the pallid ashen shell of the room, the 1200 by 1500 millimetre leviathan only served to further drain the room of life. Suspended on the canvas surface was pure ultramarine pigment. The very soul of blue itself sat levitating on the canvas, fixed eternally into one place; the perfect monochrome seemed to vibrate with energy. Its vibrance so vivid it could be said to be emitting light, a colour so overstimulating; an arresting presence creating a profound atmosphere so uniquely uncomfortable it absorbed the viewer's pneuma. To stare into the blue left you restless, anxious even. This monster of blue, a grotesque personification of colour seemed to bore into your very being. So wonderfully beautiful, to look into the canvas for too long would remove aesthetic pleasure from ordinary objects. In its virtue of exquisite brilliance it was the destroyer of life. The world was monotonous. A dull, uninteresting tedium of events that would only impede you from stealing precious evenings enveloped within the behemoths presence. The blue did not transcend time and eventually the brilliance of blue dimmed to a soft florescence. A parody of its former self the cobalt cotton hung ignored. Suspended from a single nail the azure teeth had dulled, the world had been drained but with it our leviathan had been tamed; its extreme vibrance ridiculed its own existence.
A lightbulb hung from the ceiling on a wire, approximately 15 centimetres in length. Due to the time of the year the light had spent the majority of the time off; allowing dust to collect on the upper curves, waiting for the sun to set and for the heat to burn it away. Where the wire met the ceiling a round case surrounded it, protecting it from tampering or damage. Below the swinging bulb, on top of the rope, woven into the frame of the chair sat two shoes. Old, unbuffed black leather, split open periodically allowing lace to be threaded through holding the wrinkled tongue in place. Intricate floral designs were cut into the the top layer of leather. Where this layer had be scuffed and worn it was raised at the edges. Glue failing to keep the shoes individual pieces together; time was tearing the shoe apart from itself. The old skin was tired, thinning where toes push up and towards the sky with each step.
A gentle wind that had been flowing eternally came to an end and with its momentum a cloud slowly crept in front of the sun.
The window was left untouched by warmth, beautifully dancing dust vanquished, the fridge was cast into shadow. Contour and contrast was wiped away, a parasitical grey enveloped the room. The red moon set below the electronic disc, an ultramarine siren; once so alluring and powerful was no more. The brilliance replaced by total greyness; an epitome of nothingness. The crushing equivalency, the unquestioning meaningless. A destruction of colour and definition. Without the warmth of the sun the room became cold and hollow. The fridge's hum echoed and reverberated; without the impedance of the warmth of nature it dominated, crashing off the walls. The void of the nothing spread through the room by way of the intravenous system of the cold. The air, dead and heavy weighed down on the room. The desk trembled. The black marker rolled down off the paper onto the desk and further, crashing hard onto the floor. The lid snapped off and finally stopped somewhere underneath the kitchen. The fridge's humming was deafening, it filled the room attacking the walls. The exposed piping creaked above as the whole room seemed to crumple into itself. The void grew and as it spread the air was pushed out. Forced through the cracks in the walls, under doors and through the keyhole. A vacuum encompassed the whole room; a world brought down into a compressed senseless singularity. There existed nothing except the thundering fridge, the screaming pipes. Atoms fled through the gaps. The ceiling buckled, caving in. The pipes were bent out of shape, pulled into ground. A heavy blackness, a suspended tar burnt through everything with a bitter cold. The chair was broken and thrown across the room. Splinters of rotten wood scattered into piles. Only two leather shoes remained. Suspended, swinging. Held about a chairs height above the unvarnished flooring. Nothing lay between the shoes and the ground except a small stain. Old wine soaked deep into the wood.
I would love any feedback anybody has