2. When We Spun Together
by Arif Rehman Khan
[this is the second in a three part series.
read The Sky Between Us from the beginning.]
2. When We Spun Together
My grandmother said the chair used to sing when the stars were kind. By the time I was born, it had gone quiet, standing crooked in the square like a tired sentinel.
We were children then—my friends and I, full of small rebellions. One summer night, during a power outage, we dared each other to sit on it. The air smelled of wet stone and mango peels. I was the first to climb up.
It was heavier than it looked, its arms worn smooth by years of hands. When I turned it gently, the sky above rippled—as if someone had thrown a pebble into the firmament. My friends gasped. A pulse of light bloomed and faded.
From that night onward, the chair became ours. We spun it every evening, whispering our wishes into the dark: to pass our exams, to heal a sick parent, to find courage. And sometimes, the sky answered.
But everything changed the night we spun it too long. A wind rose—not from the sky, but from beneath the ground. The church bell rang though no one pulled its rope. I remember my friend Laila crying out, “Stop! It’s listening!”
We ran, and when we returned the next day, the chair was gone. Only the circular groove remained, pressed deep into the cobblestones.
Years later, when the town rebuilt the square, they found fragments of it buried under layers of dust. My grandmother said it had folded itself into time, waiting for us to grow up.
She was right. Because some nights, when the wind changes, I hear a faint spinning sound—like a lullaby sung by the stars.
Back to the 2026 Flash Suite Contest
What’s New at Defenestrationism.net
home/ Bonafides
by 
by
Our sphere