Romans & histoires Chair For Crossed Legged Sitting

“No. The doctor said I should not walk too much or put too much pressure on it.” “Alright, no problem. We will give you easier tasks.” ‘I wonder what those tasks are.” She thought. ‘They will not be easy for me.’ “Bring the chair.” There was a sound of shuffling feet and a chair was brought into the room. Sahithi glanced at it from the corner of her eye. It was a peculiar chair – instead of a normal seat it had a single rod right in the middle of where the seat should have been. “Sit!” “What! How?” she was flustered when she saw that the rod was shaped like a penis.

I cross my arms, biceps flexing beneath my shirt sleeves. “I’d rather stand.” “I don’t care what you’d rather do.” My voice is flat. Cold. “Sit down.” I finally raise my head, eyes locking onto his. My hand gestures sharply toward the chair across from my desk. The movement is curt, dismissive. My other hand grips the edge of my desk. He sits. The leather chair creaks under his weight. Nathan lowers himself slowly, spine rigid. His hands grip his knees, knuckles pale. He shifts once, twice, unable to find comfort. His feet plant firmly on the floor, legs spread wide.

Keisha stopped playing with her blocks to look back and forth at them. “What was wrong with having it out here? It was comfortable and broken in just how I like it.” “And it looked it. That’s why it’s in your office,” Layla answered sweetly. “What am I supposed to sit in when I watch the game?” he asked with a horrified expression. “You can still sit in here.” He scoffed with disgust. “Just sit in it. Give it a try.” Damien frowned as he sat down in the new chair. He was stiff as a board. “It doesn’t recline,” he remarked.

I say. The chair in the back room is the one I like best. It’s antique, I think, with an ornate back and a red velvet cushion as a seat cover. Taller than most chairs today and no arms that’s the important part. I sit. When I cross my legs, the fabric of the skirt slides open. His eyes follow that movement too. “Have you done this before?” I ask. “N-no. No.” “You understand what happens here? You understand that once we start, we don’t stop?”

I had a lot of oak, some pecan, a few black walnut logs, some cedar, even a bit of holly. At that particular moment I was making a rocking chair for a friend. She was 'vertically challenged' as she liked to put it. Her adult height was 4' 6'', and she was the tallest of her siblings. This chair was designed for optimal comfort for her size, somewhere between a child's chair and a full size. I was drum-sanding the edges of the seat when I felt the door open. I didn't look up. Most of my friends and neighbors knew what I did most Saturdays, so if they wanted something or stopped by to say hi, they knew to come to the shop first.

My legs are starting to ache, I can’t stay in this squat position behind this chair for much longer, where the hell is Robin? Falling forward, I grab the chair to stabilise myself and it scrapes along the wooden floor, “Shit!” Worried they’re going to hear me in here.

Or that it was a resting place for her kind. They finally entered another room, this one smaller than the others, but with high, vaulted ceilings, and natural light pouring in. This room had stark, stone floors, and in its center sat one remarkable piece of furniture: a throne. Mounted high up on a pedestal, at least fifteen feet high, sat the wooden throne, a chair which was extra wide, with arms that sloped upward, and a back that angled on a triangle, coming to a point in the middle. Beneath it, on its corners, sat two golden lions, designed to look as if they were holding up the chair.