THE PAINTED CHAIR
a novella-ette by Rita Korin Karl
for E. Gorey
Sleepily he pondered why it was blue.
Then, he thought, there must be a reason it was raining.
Particularly because it was the last day of the week.
Or was it simply that the mail hadn't come yet?
Unfathomingly, he thought harder.
Really sometimes, he preferred the color green.
Now, he said (mostly to himself), I'm feeling most disagreeable today.
Later, he felt rather wishy-washy about it.
It was true, the thing did not in the least resemble a tombstone.
In fact, if it wasn't for the flowers, he knew it wouldn't be
remarkable at all.
Basically, he thought, there was just a vague sense of uneasiness.
Looking off into the distance, his eyes remained unfocused and
It had begun.
And it wasn't in the least important.