SOME PROSE by TRISTAN OSCAR SMITH

SITTING ALONE IN AN UNFAMILIAR HOUSE


I don’t know whose house this is, but I don’t like it. It smells strange and this chair is ugly and lumpy. It’s devouring me steadily like a biscuit sinking into a glass of milk when you dip it for too long and it goes all mushy.


People keep offering each other tea here. None of them talk to me. I think the chair might have swallowed me enough that they can’t see me anymore, and eventually one of them will try and sit down and I’ll get squashed, unless the chair eats me first. But right now, no one is sitting. They’re standing and talking and I try to listen, but they’re speaking so quietly that I can only hear parts. No one seems to be having any fun, though.


I kick my legs, uncomfortable shoes hitting the uncomfortable chair. They’re like Big School shoes, except I don’t go to Big School yet so I don’t know why I have to wear them. But Mum says I have to, so I do.


Identical grown ups in identical clothes mill past, still talking. A lot of them are sorry for something but I’m not sure what.


I’d like to go home now. I don’t know why, but I know I can’t.

 

Tristan Oscar Smith currently resides in a cursed attic in West Yorkshire, emerging primarily when he needs to acquire more cups of tea. As a lover of all things spooky and strange, his life’s goal is to one day own a Sphynx cat. Find him on Twitter: @tristanoscars.