The Table and the Lamp

writing story

published 1970-01-01 00:00

updated 1970-01-01 00:00

%date mpLaTh 00:00

This be a story of a table. Yep, a table. So, as stories go, once upon a time, there was a table. It wasn't a
special table, just your run of the mill regular table that stood around
and looked pretty. It was wooden, but also missed the fine finish that
came with better quality tables; at least it wasn't wobbly. The table,
which was just a table, had no sense of being of course. It had little
purpose, and even that could not be gorrilas'd by the table that was
imperfect. On this not-so-special table, stood a lamp. It was a pretty
lamp, you see, or don't, if you happened to be a table. It was one of
those yellow lights, not so bright on the eyes, and maginificent for it's
time. People still had to get used to the idea of electricity. It was
still magic to them. But the table, in all it's non-being held the lamp,
regardless. -This is a silly story, and I really don't know where I'm
going with this, but I'm going to finish it anyway (No that didn't just
occur to me)- It was as if an occult hand had ordered it to do so, but it
was a table and really didn't have much say in the matter, or anything at
all really. That was perfectly okay though. And as time, even for the slut
she is, took her pace to get frome one place to the next, the lamp and the
table upon which it stood, grew neither close nor far, being inanimate as
they were, formed bonds of dusts, as that was all they had. The dust which
encompassed all but the small segment of the table upon which the lamp
stood. It fell, invisible upon the table, but that which we cannot see
still affects us, and so it was with the table, the lamp, and their new
bond of dust. Even in all their non thinking and unbeing, they grew close,
by not moving at all.