The Old Sofa
Stories by
Carol R. Ward, Lisamarie Lamb, Heather Horton, Mike Jackson,
Jo-Anne
Russell, Karin Eider, Ann Partridge, Jamie DeBree
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Smashwords Edition
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The Old Sofa
Copyright 2012 Brazen Snake Books
ISBN: 978-1-937477-86-8
Compiled by Jamie DeBree & Heidi Sutherlin
Edited by Carol R. Ward & Jamie DeBree
Cover Art by Heidi Sutherlin
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author's imagination, and used fictitiously.
Table of Contents
Whispers by Carol R. Ward
Locking Up by Lisamarie Lamb
French Creek Cabin by Heather Horton
A New Sofa by Mike Jackson
Loose Change by Jo-Anne Russell
The Old Sofa by Karin Eider
The Love Seat by Ann Partridge
Shelter by Jamie DeBree
by Carol R. Ward
“Hey, lady. What about this old sofa?”
I turned from the window I was staring out of and blinked a couple of times to clear my thoughts.
“I haven’t decided yet,” I told the mover, glancing at the piece of furniture in question. “Could you save it for last to give me time to think about it?”
He shrugged. “Whatever you say.”
I waited until he left the room before running my hand along the worn fabric on the back of the sofa. The nap of the velvet was rubbed smooth in many places – it was so old it could almost qualify as an antique. I sat down and it welcomed me like an old friend.
To be honest, I never really thought of it as a sofa, although I don’t know what else you could have called it. The shape was a little odd – almost a half circle with a slightly curved back. It came from my Aunt Phoebe’s house originally, lord only knows where she found it.
She was a widow. Her husband died before I was born, a cloud of whispers surrounding the circumstances. She never spoke of him. Her house was full of oddities and when she died my mother said I could choose one thing out of all those treasures as a keepsake. No one was surprised that I chose the sofa, not after all the time she and I spent curled up together on it.
Oh, the stories this sofa could tell. My mouth curved up in a smile as I remembered her reading to me. Together we followed Huckleberry Finn’s raft down the Mississippi, ventured through the magical wardrobe into Narnia, and cried when Beth died leaving the Little Women one short.
Aunt Phoebe taught me to knit on this sofa, I think I was eight years old. She had boundless patience considering how inept I was. We tested cookies and cake batter sitting here and shared all our secrets. But then she died, and the sofa was no longer ours, but mine alone.
The room faded away as memories, both bitter and sweet, swept over me.
I lost my virginity on this old sofa, to the man I ended up marrying. And then I lost my innocence when I came home early one day to find him with another woman, humping like rabbits on my sofa. It was almost worse than finding them in our bed.
I was sitting on this sofa the day the doctor called to tell me I was pregnant. And later I curled up here crying my heart out as I miscarried my precious baby. There would never be another.
My thumb traced an old dark stain, a memento left there the first time Jeffrey struck me, hard enough to send me careening across the room. No matter what I tried I could never get the bloodstain out, so I covered it with an artfully draped afghan.
It was just after that first blow that I heard the whispering. At first I couldn’t make out actual words, it just filled me with a sense of comfort. But each time I took refuge on my old sofa the words became clearer, words like escape, retribution, accidental.
I’d nap on my old sofa and dream of what life would be like without Jeffrey. No more pain, no more fear. Whispers would filter through my dreams, words like snake venom, frogs, spiders, puffer fish.
On the advice of the whispers, when we were in public I began urging Jeffrey not to drink so much, to watch what he ate, to remember his health. I paid for my solicitude later, of course. But I’d curl up on the old sofa, holding an ice pack to my jaw, and let the whisper soothe away my pain and strengthen my resolve. Water hemlock, nightshade, English yew.
I leaned back and closed my eyes, but I could no longer hear the whisper. I hadn’t heard it since the funeral, three months ago. All I felt was a sense of peace.
“Ma’am?” It was the mover. “We’re just about finished here. You taking that sofa?”
Opening my eyes I stroked the soft pile of the velvet one more time and smiled.
“Thank you,” I said, getting to my feet. “I won’t be taking the sofa with me.”
It was someone else’s turn.
I took one last look at my home, empty save for the sofa. Shaking my head slightly to dispel the memories, I picked up the oleander sitting in its decorative pot on the floor, and left my old life behind.
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About the Author
Residing in Cobourg, Ontario, Carol was born with a love of reading and writing. She writes a variety of prose: non-fiction, flash fiction, short stories, and novels – in a variety of genres: humour, horror, contemporary, romance, science fiction, and fantasy. She has also explored over 100 different forms of poetry, searching for the perfect verse. She loves hearing from fans and you can visit Carol on her blog, Random Thoughts of the Writerly Kind