The Context Machine

The oak furniture was indeed a cruel mistress, for it was only pleasing to look at, but quite uncomfortable to sit in. The gnarled arms dug into my wrists, and without cushions, the back and seat of the chair would start to hurt after a while. It truly was an ancient device of torture. Or so I thought. One night, as I lay asleep in my bed, I was abruptly awoken by a creaking downstairs. I fumbled in the dark for the light switch and hurriedly put my dressing gown on. As I edged my way down the stairs, I was greeted by a sight I couldn’t have possibly imagined in my wildest dreams, because to be quite honest, it was just too weird. The chair was moving. That and it had eaten the dog, whose festering carcass lay just a few feet away. The smell was rancid, as soon as the acrid copper tang of the blood passed through my nostrils to hit the back of my throat, I tumbled over, gagging. I rose to my feet, gasping for breath as the chair came at me, baring what I presumed to be its fangs. I tumbled backwards and kicked simultaneously, launching the chair into the burning log fire, which - for some reason - was actually lit. I laughed maniacally as the chair burnt to “death” in the flames. I then went back to bed.