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The White Cottage Chair

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Chair
He was there again, sitting in the white cottage chair on the deck in my backyard, looking out at the mist that seemed to linger out beyond the lake.

"What was he doing there?" I thought. Everyday just before dawn he would appear there in the white cottage chair, looking out across the lake at the mist that seemed to linger there.

"I'm going to talk to him this time," I thought to myself. But before I could get the chance, he no longer sat there in the white cottage chair. He no longer looked out across the lake at the mist that no longer lingered there. I stood there confused, but not slightly frightened of this man that would sit in my white cottage chair, looking out beyond the lake at the mist that would just linger there.

This has been my routine for quite a while now; I would awake from my morning slumber, and then walk down the narrow, wooden hall of umber. I would begin my morning with an abstract brew, to prepare for the day I would soon pursue. But every morning before I left to complete my daily duty I would sit there with my abstract brew, wondering what he was doing. This couldn't go on I once realized, that this man shouldn't go on sitting in my white cottage chair unpenalized. I could never confront him however; he would always mysteriously vanish before I could walk up to him, and so I decided I would sit next beside him.

I sat there in another white cottage chair, staring across the lake at the mist that just lingered there. Waiting for this mysterious man to appear, tapping on the side of what was my chair, I continued staring out across the lake, at the mist that just lingered there. Growing impatient I began to tap harder, wondering if this man and I would soon barter. But then he was there, sitting next to me in the white cottage chair, looking out beyond the lake at the mist that seemed to linger there. I couldn't believe this moment had finally arrived! I sat there staring at this man that sat there looking out beyond the lake at the mist that seemed to linger there.

"Who are you and what are you doing?" I wanted to ask. But then I realized he was no longer looking at the mist out beyond the lake. He was now looking at me with those pale white eyes, his arms still resting on the arms of the white cottage chair. He looked at me for what felt like eternity, then I looked down from those pale white eyes and saw he wasn't breathing. I was frightened, but could not look away as he turned his head back the other way. He looked once again beyond the lake at the mist that no longer lingered there, and soon after there was no man that sat in my white cottage chair.

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