Floors

Short prose by Jake Brunton.

Floors (by Jake Brunton)

"Why do you seat thyself on the floor, boy?" asks the old man. Why indeed. What is the subordinate crime for resting on the floor, for resting on ground? What is the conglomerate of seaters that bans the floor seaters from its bounds? "Have a seat, my boy!" rings the old man. But why, as I find this seat relaxing, humble

.

"Boy, get off that floor!" he cries out, as if a clergy to the chapel of grey. It seems assumed to the seater member that I am a fan of the bleak and macabre thought; certainly true but my sitting on this floor is not intentional of such values. I simply wish to rest perpendicular to the floor.

"You're not a dog boy!" he shouts. But what is wrong with being a dog? What is, ultimately, wrong with resting on thy floor? I have no ulterior motive, no higher intention or actions to dispel in my doing so. I simply wish to relax upon the floor.

Reviews

[Shannon]

Silent protest. Against social norms or perhaps something even larger.