The sofa sneezed.
"Stuff it, feather brain!" muttered the sword, hanging on the wall. It wasn't a real sword, it was only a model. It had been hanging there for quite a while, and it clearly overestimated its own importance.
The sofa looked on, apathetically.
"Oh, dear me," said the coffee table.
Then there was silence. The rug, lamp, and curtains declining to comment. The lamp was asleep anyway, as the natural light from the sun filtering in the window had convinced it that it was night-time. The sunlight was not feeling very talkative either.
The silence stretched on, languishing in the feel of its body, just like a cat would on the carpet. The rug, breaking the silence, (which made the window cringe), said tentatively, "it seems to me, that it would be a dreadful waste of time..." And then awkwardly trailed off, hoping someone would catch on and agree. Nobody replied. Not that they hadn't heard it, (for it had been the only sound), but more likely because they weren't mind-readers and the rug didn't have any mind to read anyway. Nobody liked the rug. Timidly, it continued: "A waste of time, keeping on like this..."
"Don't worry, chap! Things change, you know." Reassured the coffee table.
"I'm hungry!" declared the curtains.
The sofa yawned.
The lamp started snoring.
The person walked in, plopped himself on the sofa, and promptly joined the lamp. It was 5 o'clock.
"Not again!" Exclaimed the person's shoes, for they hated to touch the sofa, and the person had callously left them on. The person was an instigator.
The air was thick. The clock ticked. The lamp flicked, and then exploded.
"Guargh!" Said the person, who was always a caveman in the mornings. He stood up to the wheeze of the sofa, who had been finding it difficult to breathe. The person was a bully. "Shillings, humbug!" He muttered, stalking out of the room.
"Fellow's up to no good," assessed the coffee table, who was always the most perceptive about that sort of thing.
"Tsk, Tsk," said the clock.
The sofa looked on, dejectedly. The sofa was a masochist.
"Doesn't anybody want to know what I think?" Asked the rug.
Nobody wanted to know what the rug thought. Frankly, the sword was surprised that the rug thought at all.
"Perhaps we aught to help the poor lad. After all, he hasn't got a family," mused the coffee table.
"Tsk, Tsk," said the clock, and then burst into song, the most pleasant melody you ever heard of, for no reason at all, but that it was 6 o'clock and it wanted to celebrate. Everyone thought the clock was weird, except the rug, who didn't think at all. The clock didn't think much of the rug, either.
"What's the matter with you people!" Exclaimed the window. "The boy's dying, right there in the middle of the room!"
"I disagree!" said the curtains.
One way or another, nobody did anything. The tragedy passed in grim silence.
"I guess its all up to you, now." Said the sword.
The sunlight beamed.
But the sunlight was getting old, each click of the clock testifying that the day wasn't as young as it used to be, and soon it was night.
"Sleep well!" was its final, tortured cry. The sobbing of the clock, its only recompense.
