Young Writers Society

Starting post:

The empty coffee table squats low to the ground. Its glass edge is so shiny, it looks almost metallic. Through the glass, you can see wooden circles where the table legs meet the top.

The coffee table sits outside a cafe, which is currently closed. It is placed in the back corner of the outside seating area, and is covered in a thin layer of dust. It has been here longer than some of the people who work at the cafe

The sun casts dancing colors through the stained-glass windows upon the altar; edges of indigo pirouetting between magenta. The hand of God perhaps moving light just as intently as the minister moving bread, then chalice. Each fold of the altar-cloth has been ironed preserving creases kept three generations back. But the acolyte-boys do not seem to care as they rush to drip fresh wax on the pressed white fabric, eager to return to their seats. For a moment a hundred souls hold their breath, every eye turned with a singular gaze to the altar until in collective sigh, their heads bow, then rise, then each stands to draw near. It would seem almost sacrilegious for the assembly to have their attention so devotedly entranced on to such a simple wooden table - apart from the ornamentation, there is hardly a peculiar marking, or any evidence of fine craftmanship. Yes, it would be sacrilegious to pay so much attention, except that the lamb is enthroned upon it.

The sturdy, blocky, legs hold up a flat, darkwood board. Each groove and line in the wood can be felt, despite the table being smoothed out. You can never seem to rid a tree's design. A nice little table, the one that's next to your bed, or the one Grandma uses for her plants, despite it's simple design, what was once a tree, now a table, used for whatever you need.
To store, to display, to eat.
To hae fun around.

The white surface is cool to the touch. Its corners are blunted slightly: underneath the coating, the wood expands. The table is strong enough but lightweight. Specks of grey dust pattern the tabletop.

It slouches by the wall. Sharp nail points project from its edges, threatening to snag on the clothes of any passers by. The center sags in and a hot pan once burned a dark spot on its rough wood.

The white streaks in the black marble surface glisten when touched by water. The surface is smooth and pristine, the corners each exactly ninety degrees. The table is cool to the touch. Its wooden legs are carved in patterns of vines and flowers, the creator’s initials tucked away inside an unassuming curl.

This table is round and low to the ground. It stands on a tripod. Its top is dark purple and the edge of the table is a shade of magenta.

Worn with more memories than my grandfather's Bible, his mother-in-law's table now sits in our dining room. It is all at once an imposing altar, a holiday buffet, a pillow for a child's head to rest, a work desk, a crafting counter, a filled slate for signatures over a century old and tally marks for quarantined days and initials of secret-loves carved quickly when parents aren't looking. Perfectly round, except the scuffed side by the window, that my mother will sit at in an attempt to save our guests from the uneven edge. I sometimes wonder if my great-grandmother ever imagined her sturdy kitchen table, the heart of her home, would be passed like a treasure to three homes after she was gone. Did she imagine what generations would chatter, and bicker, and laugh reminiscing? Are her dreams carved among my own somewhere in the woodgrain? One day will my own grandchildren eat strawberry pie here from an ancient recipe, and make up stories for all the people who have gathered here? One day will the worn edge be smoothed out? In some way even now, do we share a meal together, past and present and future all at one table, even in our unknowing, because somehow this humble heirloom seems to hold memory? Is this table, this passed down living tree, another thread of Eternity sewn through finite lives to remind us time never ends.

This table is completely flat. It has three columns and ten rows. All are empty. If you touch the table, you don't.



Bonus: This desk has a back, like a chair does. It leans against the wall, it and all the books and pencils it carries on a little shelf. The flat surface of the desk is smooth and cool to the touch.

Usually, this table had some poor soul strapped to it, praying to whatever deity they saw fit make their agony end. But today, it was empty. The silver metal was cool, stained with the remains of the last victim.

this table is a great flat stone with moss across it's surface, this table is balanced on smaller rocks and tree limbs. it has squirrels tracks darkly adorning it with mud.

Once more I am begging myself to clear this stack of books and papers and unread mail and read mail and saved mail and letters I really do intend to send. But as soon as I start in with all the benefits of a clear desk, I argue against myself, "there is no time, and anyways, I might need that sticky note scribble or that stray envelope corner, you never know with paper - you never know." So I push everything once more into this ever-growing precarious stack of saved manuscripts of the last six months of my hoarding mixed with my work, and tell myself I will get this cleaned up another day.

This table is just big enough to fit a laptop, without accounting for the mouse. However, it is too low for anyone to be able to work on it without getting a pain in their neck. It seems expressly designed for that purpose, with its white surface that stubbornly accumulates stains, and its rounded corners, as though stingy with the space it wants to afford the people that work on it. It has only one leg which connects off to the side rather in the centre, skewed in a sort of sarcastic fashion.

This table has scars. It has scratches from sharp objects accidentally dragged across it. It has rings of discoloration from holding wet mugs. Its pale wood shows every blemish, flaunts them to the world, displays them as proof of years lived. More than anything, it shines with pride. It has been a faithful table, not yielding under the weight of textbooks or collapsing when the vacuum cleaner knocks against it. It will last for many more years and collect more dents and marks. It knows the story of every scar.