I am a stool. There is, I must humbley admit, nothing notably remarkable about me. I have three legs, notched and scratched. They have been bowed and broken many times, and ave been taped and glued in such a way that I stand awkwardly in a tilted slouch, much like a gentleman who can count sixty or seventy winters.

In my day, I was strong and hardy. I have no bones or blood, but a heart has been carved upon my seat in a darker wood. I was fomosjed amd waxed sp I shone magnificently, but I am now rough and weathered. My creation was intended to be for a child, wose name has been carved on my underbelly; "Elias." I have been his table, his chair. I helped take him to new heights, fulfill his curiosities and get into troubles. But I am old. He is too big for me to support, and the name has been worn down illegibly. I, in these days, serve no purpose. I have been colored and painted on, and am an ugly collage of imagination that has since turned to reason. Perhaps that is why my Boy as kept me; his youth is stained into my legs. But such outh is something he has no time for, and such is my plight. I am occupying a cob-webbed corner,unlit most hours, and recieve no glances.

I have heard them, talking. Their location is soon to move. I will not be joining them. They speak of things I have come to no longer fear, but accept as inevitability. Things grow old and die. It is our Mother's way. I will be taken to a lumber yard or dump. More likely the latter. I am stained.
Five light-times p*censored*. Many things have ben removed, I do not expect to see them again. My boy, who has since become a man, comes to stand above me, peering with a troubled hesitation. My hope is not that of great measure. He calls to his wife, a pretty woman whose belly I have seen bulge significantly, bloated with young life, and cries have filled the halls, and movement, and happiness. It was all that happiness, it never leaves, that she looks at me with. But she, too, seems conflicted. They speak more, hushed, as if they knowI  can hear. I do not need to. As said before I do not have fear, nor resentment. I do not blame my Boy. I was a good stool, when I was first handcrafted by dark, cracked hands, steadily and lovingly perfected.Yet...today, and days previous, I have done nothing more than take up space.
It it no one's fault.

The two seem to come to some sort of agreement. He seems doubtful at first, but she was cheerful. Her high-cheeked blush and pretty smile, though, changed his spirits, and he too betrays a smile.

A few hours p*censored* by, and I know because of the way my Boy's beard looks it is about four or five in the late afternoon. But his wife is not cooking dinner, as is the usual custom. She is looking through books and is flowing. She looks at me every so often, and I begin to feel self conscious. She must have been deliberating over something, for she calls my Boy over and points in the book, nodding happily. Both leave, and when they return, they pick me up and carry me to the chariot. I have been in one a few times before, when my Boy changed dens, but I know now where I go. I do not remember the chariot ride being so bumpy, or noisy. I am nervous now, but not afraid. They are talking in the front seat, they both seem happy, and this makes me happy. My nervousness melts. My boy has found life for himself, a wife to make him smile. Things will be all right.
I have to tell myself this many times.

We stop. I hear loud sounds all around, and I know deep in myself these will be the last moments I will be with my Boy. He takes me out, I see this place they have taken me. Long flat strips of wood, huge sheets, m*censored*ive piles of shavings and chips in huge holes dug in the ground. I am handled by him delicately, he strokes my seat and legs, and traces the dark wooden heart, and I am happy.

I am handed to another pair of hands, very rough and large, long fingers and dirty fingernails. I am taken inside, and lose sight of my Boy. Inside, I am examined briefly, and then it begins. A horribly loud snap, and one of my legs is relieved of me, dust and dreams spinning through the air. I am grateful I have no bones or blood or nerves. The other legs, they too are violently stripped away.

This is my end. I will be put through the machines, and buried bath into the womb of my Mother Earth, and it will be warm and quiet. And then darkness befalls me...

This room...it is white. And..blue. Senses return to me, slowly, and..a soft mechanical lullaby is tinkling. I am changed. I have four legs now, and stand taler. No longer am I in the dark place where whispers fall silent. A small, pink chirping thing is wriggling in my new rip cage, my dark wood heart overseeing it. He has the same rich skin as my Boy and, by some strike of enchantment, Elias and his wife step throughthe door. They beam.
"How handsome," his wife whispers.
"Yes...how handsome indeed," my Boy answers.
I know he was not speaking of me, that would be rediculous. But I can imagine I saw his eyes flicker to me. My deep wood, my shiny finish. I have been stained, and I am strong.