Disclaimer: This story belongs to me, and only me.  But the letter to the editor is something that I actually received from someone so it's not mine, I just buffed it up a bit and put some extra's in there somewhere.  Good luck if you can find them.

Author's Note:  This story, obviously, has no point.  But, before you read it, I urge you to read this note, simply because you just might think it stupid if you don't.  This was inspired by the given prompt:  Pretend you're a kitchen appliance or piece of furniture and you're owner over uses you.  Write a letter of resignation or short story or poem listing the grievances.  As you can see, I picked a short story.  Now, with that being explained, read on.

                                                                                                            Good Ol' Recliner

You know, it's weird, as these days continue to drag themselves out, I keep thinking back to the warehouse, where there were others just like me, all lined up in stock waiting to be bought.  I remember loving to see the sun peak up over the horizon out side, shinning its lovely rays over my black leather, warming me greatly.  People would come in the warehouse about thirty minutes of its opening and wonder around, looking each and every one of us up and down, wondering if we would really last or not. 

I liked those days.  They were nice, nothing too harsh about them.  I remember how I used to pray, hoping that the person that rubbed my leather this way and that would be my next owner.  Now, I pity myself forever thinking that.

If only I had known I'd end up with a bunch like this!  I would have cursed myself to death for ever thinking such a thing!!  Never did I imagine that little kids could be so ruthless.  It's like they don't even have feelings for the inanimate anymore!

They beat my pillows together when they wanna use them for head rests, and then they have the nerves to comment on the degrees of my precious leather!  If they would just keep their damn house warm, I wouldn't be so cold to the touch now would I? 

I remember seeing the couple the first time, they came to the store by themselves.  It was late into the afternoon and I had just experienced a great many getting picked for ownership, envying them because I wished it were me.  The woman had walked up to me as if I was the thing she came for, her eyes running over my surface.  After staring at me awhile, she turned, flagging what I perceived to be her husband over and together they stood, eyeing my price tag and petting me softly on my arm.  I remember being a bit nervous, I wanted to be presentable but was miffed at the fact that some dust had accumulated on my shinny surface over the collected hours of the day.  The two people must not have noticed because they flagged over a man in the store uniform, telling them that they wanted me: me!

I was happy beyond all reason; finally I was picked.  I remember them keeping me there on display for two more days, making me wait in anticipation before they boxed me up, sending me out to these people's house.  They unpackaged me and moved me into their front room and there I sat, musing quietly to myself.  Hours later, I met what would be the end of me: their kids.

They showed me no respect!  Misusing and overusing me as if I was a piece of reusable wipe!  I felt so violated, having them squash my cushions, bounce and flop whenever they felt pleasant.  It's no wonder that I went crazy and did what I did; I couldn't take it.  I'm a recliner, A LEATHER RECLINER!!!  I deserved much better than to be treated under the harsh conditions I was forced to survive.  They poked and prodded me with things, ripping my seat cushion and simply hiding the fact by turning it over.

Yeah, good one guys, your parents won't find out, but guess what?  I did!  It hurt, real bad, and still hurts, yet is anyone crying for the pain and abuse passed down to me?  No, I didn't think so.  That's why I decided to take matters into my own hands.  I wasn't living like this, no, I deserved much more than my previous treatment, and if they couldn't see that, then what was the harm in teaching them so?  I was tired of it, I really was and was thinking on just giving up being a recliner altogether, but then figured that to be a hard thing to try and come by, so then just decided to get some revenge, and revenge I did get.

I seemed pretty innocent, the nice black leather recliner sitting in the front room, tattered and beaten by those little kids of theirs.  Poor fellows never saw it coming.  I realized after a while that one of my springs were loose, and with proper timing and correct positioning, I could pop it out at will through the cut they had made.  The only way this would work though was with one of their kids, you see, they came up with a slick way of not getting caught with staining my beautiful surfaces with food.  Why all you had to do was turn my cushion over, and—volià!  All their stains and crust from previous "accidents" dispersed.

Yeah well, I would make them think otherwise about doing that to their next recliner.  My victim was Toby, the oldest kid who should have known better.  He had been walking over to me with pizza in his hand like any other day, and with one swift movement of the arm, he turned my pillow over, plopping down on it hard as he always does.  It was then that I made my move, popping my spring out its racks so hard that it pierced through his thin shorts, stabbing him somewhat in what I at first thought was his bottom.  I later realized it was his lower thigh when he screamed, jumping up and grabbing the back of his thigh with his two free hands (he dropped his pizza on contact).

The sight was enough to make me laugh, had I a mouth.  He cried a good deal, bleeding a lot as well, now that much I didn't expect.  The parents came home and examined me, discovering me to be too dangerous, and thus sent me back to the warehouse, hopping to get a refund on their purchase.  I don't know if they ever got their money, but my time was done being their recliner.

                                                                                                        A letter to the editor:

Why you evil recliner, how dare you. You are just a lowly piece of inanimate furniture to serve man. If there is a chance that they repair you, which I don't think so, cause it is going to be the junkyard for you, well, let me tell you this:

Lets say you do get with another family, what, do you think the grass is greener onthat' the other side of the fence?  I don't think so.  You might get a family with even more kids.  And listen to me, you poor excuse for a chair, kids abuse furniture, that's just the cycle of life.  To tell you the truth I don't think you're even good enough to be seated on.  Look, if you can't take it maybe you should have been a leather handbag.  But I have the impression that you're just a stupid chronic complainer.  I don't think I'll be seating on you anytime too soon. Plus, get it through your head—recliners don't have rights.

                                                                                                                                                         ----From just a guy that likes to sit.

P.S.: I didn't win the contest.  What ever for?