This is Ria.
Welcome to Little Stories for Tiny People.
You can write a story about anything.
It's true.
Don't believe me?
Well, this story is about a sofa.
A sofa.
And I think it came out really good.
I love it, actually.
I hope you do too.
Let's get right to it.
The story is called A Sofa Named Sheila.
Take it away, Leaf.
Remember, have no Bitcoin.
You have to embody them in your mind.
Okay, here we go.
Sheila woke up from a dreamless sleep to find herself in the wrong room.
The lights were blazing down on her seats.
Her pillow was askew.
The room she was in had no ceiling, no walls.
It wasn't a room at all, but Sheila didn't know that yet.
She hadn't been outside in about 12 years.
And back then she'd been covered by a tarp for the short time that she'd been exposed to the elements between the store and the truck and the truck and the apartment.
She had been covered by a tarp because she was so new, so precious.
Now, she wasn't covered with anything anymore.
Except, huh, she was covered with something.
Dust.
Yellow dust she'd never seen before.
She glared at that dust, wishing she had arms that moved.
But her arms were just there to prop up people's arms.
They were no good for dusting.
Sheila tried to replay the events from the day before.
She tried to piece together how she'd gone from her comfortable spot in her room to this weird place where there was no ceiling and no walls and the air was somehow wet, and the memories started to come back to her.
She'd been just sitting there, as usual, wondering when she'd be vacuumed.
The cat Juju, had been sprawling on her for a week as if he didn't have other places he could sprawl, and Sheila was covered in cat hair and wanted to be vacuumed.
But at the same time, she did not want to be vacuumed because she hated the sound of it.
The feeling she had just after being vacuumed?
Clean, open, young again.
It was a magical feeling. but it never made her any less anxious before the vacuum came around.
The vacuum was late.
It should have come around a few days ago, or at least yesterday.
The people were usually pretty good about staying on a schedule, even if they went back and forth about who would do the vacuuming.
Uh, pretty sure I did it last Thursday.
You're up.
My toe is sore from when that bee stung me.
Wasn't that last month?
It wasn't something they forgot about because they sat on Sheila every single day.
How could they forget about her?
So, Sheila was feeling anxious about being vacuumed and anxious about not being vacuumed.
And she couldn't stop wondering why it hadn't happened, and she couldn't stop bracing herself for it to happen.
Then, she heard the people talking, and they were saying things they'd never said before.
She forgot about the vacuum altogether, and she listened.
I'm not getting rid of Sheila.
She's my friend.
Sheila puffed up at the mention of her name.
I feel like I was pretty understanding when you named the couch, but now it's your friend?
People name their cars.
I'll bet people name their mustaches.
Look, we've had it at least ten years, right?
One of the people dropped onto Sheila and hugged her gray pillow.
Sheila slouched under the person's weight.
So?
Sheila's so comfy.
She's shabby chic.
Sheila was shabby chic like three years ago.
We can get a new Sheila.
A new me?
Sheila felt like her insides were twisting in knots.
All this stress was going to make her upholstery pill.
New is overrated.
Anyway, Sheila's not old.
She's well loved.
The person hugged Sheila.
Sheila would have used her arms to hug back, but they didn't move.
The discussion of what to do with Sheila was cut short when the other person suggested they go for a jog.
And they went for a jog.
And Sheila had no idea what a jog was or what it tasted like, but she knew that when they returned from eating jogs, the people would collapse on her and turn on the colorful box with the moving pictures and all would be well again.
And they did do that.
But while they were eating their jugs, or later, when they were out of earshot, after watching the colorful box.
That discussion of what to do with Sheila must have restarted again.
And the end of that conversation must have been important.
Because now Sheila was no longer in the room.
Sheila was in the new non-room, the one that was actually outside, and she was covered in that yellow dust and her one gray pillow was askew and if she could have, she would have hugged herself with her arms And she would have hugged her one gray pillow.
But her arms didn't move.
And then she heard something.
It sounded like paper fluttering in the wind.
Then, footsteps.
People.
Two of them.
They approached and one reached out a hand and touched the fluttering paper attached to Sheila.
Free, huh?
You want a couch?
Eh, I wanted a green couch.
This one's free, though.
Yeah, no, I don't want it.
You want raisins?
Yes, I want raisins.
They left to go get some raisins.
Those were just the first people to come.
More came.
More touched the fluttering paper.
Some sat right down on Sheila.
Others walked around her, running their fingers over her imperfections, making her flinch.
Those were the times she wanted to sink into the sidewalk.
That first night, a creature came ambling towards Sheila after leaping out of a trash bin.
It nestled into her cushion. and she could feel its heartbeat.
Sheila tried to imagine it was Juju, the cat.
She never thought she'd miss Juju.
After napping for a while, the creature slunk away.
Sheila wondered whether it left some fur behind, and she thought again about the vacuum.
She wondered if she'd ever get that after-vacuum feeling again.
Clean, open, young.
In the morning, a bird landed on Sheila.
A talkative bird.
Well, hello.
You were not here yesterday.
You are a alofa?
No, that's not right.
That's not right.
Aloofa.
Stofa.
Stofa.
No, that's wrong.
Muffin.
Muffin.
That's a word.
Yes, you are a muffin.
I am not a muffin, Sheila thought to herself.
Nice day, isn't it?
Simply beautiful.
And it was.
The sky was a pale blue and the clouds were a pale pink.
And the sun was bright, but not too bright.
And the air felt, oh, there's another muffin.
Sheila could feel the bird's little feet shifting on her arm.
And it took her a second to understand what the bird was saying.
And she strained to take a look.
And there it was.
It was not a muffin.
It was a brand new sofa.
That's funny.
I never see muffins here.
And now all of a sudden, two muffins.
Two muffins, same day.
Looks like it came off that truck right there.
The truck had done its job.
It drove away, leaving the other sofa facing Sheila.
Well, this is awkward, the bird said.
Sheila wished she could swat the bird away.
But her arms just sat there, taunting her with their inability to do anything helpful, anything at all.
Worse still, Sheila realized that the brand new perfect sofa straight from a truck had a full view of Sheila's side.
The side that, over the course of 12 years, had been ripped up by Juju the cat.
Oh.
It was so embarrassing.
Again, Sheila wished she could sink into the sidewalk.
The people, the very same people who used to lounge on Sheila, appeared and didn't even look in her direction.
Instead, they picked up the brand new sofa. and slowly carried it towards the apartment.
Sheila watched them lurch the sofa out of sight.
There it goes.
Bye, Muffin.
Wasn't that nice?
Beautiful color, don't you think?
Now maybe some people will come along and take you away.
What do you think, Other Muffin?
I am not Other Muffin.
I am the original Muffin, if anything, Sheila thought to herself.
She sighed, wishing the bird would just go away.
And it did.
It flew away.
Sheila was alone again.
That night, she wondered if the creature would come back for another nap.
But it didn't.
In the morning, Sheila woke up to hear something very loud coming down the block.
She understood what the sound was because she'd heard it many times before.
It was the sound that always made one of the people run wildly out of the apartment carrying a bag of trash, saying something like I'm going to make it this time.
Uh-huh.
Just make sure you put it all the way to the curb this time.
They won't take it if it's not on the curb.
And right on time, the person, the person who had sat on Sheila too many times to count, the person who had named Sheila, that person, came running out of the apartment, swinging a bag of trash and set it down right next to Sheila.
Then the person walked back, panting from running so hard.
And in that moment, Sheila realized she had been dragged to the curb.
She was trash.
The clouds above Sheila were a milky white against the gray sky.
It was the kind of sky that gave no hint as to what might happen next.
It was the kind of sky that could deliver any type of weather.
Rain, sun, fog.
And you wouldn't be surprised.
Sheila tried to focus on that gray sky as the trash truck came ever closer.
It stopped at the apartment building next door.
People tossed things in that clunked around.
Then, there it was, right in front of Sheila.
She felt four big hands grip her arms and she wished more than anything that her arms could move, could thrash, could Hey hey uh, excuse me um, I think we're gonna take that sofa, if that's alright.
Huh.
Who's that?
Two new people speaking to the people from the trash truck.
There was a pause.
The four big hands ungripped Sheila's arms and disappeared.
One of the people from the trash truck picked up the bag next to Sheila and swung it up into the truck.
Sheila hadn't even realized she was holding her breath until that moment, and she let it out and her cushions sighed.
The one gray pillow sighed, too.
The sound of the trash truck receded as it turned a corner.
The two new people approached.
One of them dropped onto Sheila's cushion and hugged the gray pillow.
How could anyone get rid of this sofa?
Seriously, it's perfect.
Sheila felt like her upholstery was humming, alive from that word.
They think I'm perfect.
My name is Sheila, Sheila tried to say, but nothing came out.
There was an old beat-up van parked nearby.
The people bent at the knees and picked up Sheila and carried her away.
They didn't know her name.
They would never know her name.
They loved her anyway.
That was three days ago.
In her new room, there is a dog.
The dog is named Gustavo.
Gustavo lays on Sheila all day, except when the people go for walks.
Then the dog barks and goes out for a walk with the people.
Sheila doesn't know what a walk is or what it tastes like.
But she knows that when the people and Gustavo come back from eating walks, the dog will collapse on Sheila and snuggle with her for the rest of the day.
And the first time the people come at Sheila with the vacuum, she gets that anxious feeling she had about the vacuum back in the old room before.
And she braces herself for the loud sound and the roughness of it and... Oh...
This vacuum is different.
It's quieter than the other one.
The people use a small attachment that's soft on her surface.
This vacuum makes a purring sound.
And it reminds Sheila of Juju, the cat.
And Sheila never considered that maybe she had loved Juju.
But now she does consider it.
She misses Juju, and she will never see Juju again.
And she is sad.
After the vacuum is gone, Gustavo leaps onto Sheila and snuggles against her.
Gustavo loves Sheila.
She can tell.
And if she could, Sheila would use her arms to hug the dog. but her arms don't move.
So Sheila allows herself to be loved in her new room, in her new house, with her new vacuum and the people who don't even know her name.
Sheila sighs, and she feels her cushions sigh along with her.
She slips into a peaceful state, reflecting on all that has happened to her.
She thinks about that new sofa, the one she'd felt so angry towards just a little while earlier.
And for the first time, she has a new thought directed at that new sofa.
You are me.
Twelve years ago, you are just like me.
We are no different.
We are separated only by time.
Nothing else.
Sheila feels Gustavo shift around, finding the best possible position for himself.
Then he stops and is still.
Sheila falls asleep.
The dog falls asleep, too.
Writing this story about Sheila was really fun.
I didn't expect it to work out.
It was just practice, really, but I ended up loving it.
I know there are many of you out there writing stories of your own.
So maybe as a writing exercise, you can think of a thing and give it a life.
Give it experiences.
What does it feel?
What does it think?
Where does it end up?
Little Stories for Tiny People is written, performed, and produced by me, Rhea Pector.
My in-house tech director, Peter Kay, runs my website and puts my stories on the internet for all of you to enjoy.
Thank you to Leaf for the very special intro message at the beginning.
And a big thank you to the listeners who provided the outstanding sound effects heard in this story.
Thank you, Oliver, Amabella, Cypress, and Aaron.
Thank you, as always, for listening in.
