The Stool

The old man shifted uneasily on the old, wood stool. The stool had served him well, that is, as well as it could, considering it was old and hard. The man appreciated the support it had given him over the years, but today he yearned for a much softer stool. One made of the fine black forest wood that his friend had recently purchased. His friend's stool had a soft cloth top, stuffed with cotton, to add comfort. It's elegantly carved legs swooped to the floor providing the most excellent stability that one could expect from a stool. The old man rubbed his behind and bemoaned his fate at having to sit on such a hard stool.

At length he stood and tried to continue his work while standing. Shortly, this too made the old man uncomfortable and he teetered from one foot to the other. Oh, how he wished that he had a nice gel mat like his friend had. He had stood on it once. Of course he didn't give his friend the satisfaction of seeing him stand on it nor the broad smile that crossed the old man's face. No he didn't dare let his friend see the joy he had for the fine things that his friend had.

Not able to stoop any longer he sat once again on his stool only to stand quickly once again and kick the stool away from him. The stool clattered across the floor and ended its unfortunate journey in a heap next to the fireplace. The old man cursed the heavens for his fate as he crossed the room to the stool. He stared down at it as he once again bemoaned his fate and his life. He kicked out at the stool. Crack. The leg broke. He kicked again. Crack. Crack. Crack. All four legs broken he swiftly threw them into the fire and watched the blaze with a grin. "Now," he said as he rubbed his hands together, "You are worth something."

The fire howled as the old man watched the stool burn into the night. When it finally died down, he returned to his desk and angrily stood, wishing he had his friend's mat.