In an interview with Neil Gaiman, the interviewer asked Gaiman a long-winded question. Gaiman surmised that he was asking, "How do you get ideas for your story?" Gaiman said that this a question most writers hate answering because ideas often come in the most inconsistent manners--seemingly out of thin air. Still, Gaiman tried answering the question. He said that often a writer's mind wanders, one idea leading to another. As an example, he posed the question, "What would happen if a chair was bitten by a werewolf?"

The following story is an attempt to answer that question.

Were-Chair by Kim Robinson

I am a chair.

From what I gathered, I was a bitten some time ago. And on this night—the night of the full moon—a glint of moonlight shined on one of my legs. Then suddenly, I felt fur grow all around me and bore sharp teeth.

I suppose now, I'm also a werewolf. A sentient, werewolf-chair, or a Were-Chair.

Before I became a Were-Chair, I knew I was just a chair. I knew I stood in front of a desk and that I belonged to my dear old friend—the gentlemen who bought me.

Although I have no ears nor eyes, I have an awareness. To start, I know I used to be part of a tree that was cut down and manufactured into a chair. I remember never feeling mad nor sad about being struck down. In fact, I don't recall having any thoughts or feelings at that the time.

But I have feelings now. To start, I have this unpleasant emptiness within me. I wondered what it was, but I didn't have time to think about it when my dear old friend entered the room.

He was too preoccupied with the papers in his hands to notice my transformation. But, when he sat upon me, I could sense his momentary puzzlement.

Perhaps he thought I was softer than usual. Did my fur make me more comfortable than the average hardwood chair? I didn't think about that for long, though. Instead, I was thinking to myself, "I don't quite like being sat on. In fact, I hate feeling his crushing weight." Then, momentarily, I was thoughtless. The emptiness, a feeling I later registered as hunger, took over.

As soon as he sat up, possibly to investigate my sudden transformation, I seized the opportunity. Bearing my sharp teeth, I bit him right in the ass.

He shrieked and ran away, holding his bleeding bum. I heard him lock himself in the bathroom.

Sometime later, I heard him howl a beastly roar followed by the sound of the bathroom door splintering open. He grew fur and bore teeth as similar as my own. I suppose I made a werewolf out of my dear old friend.

I doubt his problems were as severe as my mine, though.

For starters, I had this hunger that was terribly bothersome. The taste of my dear old friend's blood wasn't enough to satisfy the emptiness—this deep pit I badly wanted to fill. I hated it because it did not logically make sense for a chair to require sustenance.

Where would the food go? My legs? Would it just vanish? Or would I just simply spit it back out because I lacked a place for food to go?

If I had a head, I would have a headache by now.

I also grew quite lonely, my only companions being my dear old friend and the house cat. I heard my feline friend yowl in the other room. I'm afraid my dear old friend just ate the poor cat. I'm sure of it.

And I know that didn't satisfy my dear old friend because werewolves aren't easily satisfied—they probably didn't know the meaning of being full. My dear old friend roared one last time before I heard the front door burst open.

He left me, and now I'm alone.

For the moment, I reminisced parts of my life up until now, before I became a Were-Chair. Most of my life revolved around standing in this room and being sat on—a perpetual series of nothing mostly happening.

But it wasn't all bad. I didn't have this emptiness that grew stronger as moments passed by. I wasn't spiteful toward my dear old friend who sat on me because, quite frankly, chairs are meant to be sat on. I also didn't experience this crippling sense of loneliness—where the quiet in the room made me sadder because I knew nobody would come back.

I prayed for dawn to come—to rid me of this fur, sharp teeth, and accursed sentience. But, I'm afraid sunrise is awhile away.

I've just broken window. I need to satisfy this hunger of mine, even though part of me knows it's a waste of time.

As I leave tracks in my wake, I wait for the time that I may return to being just a normal, thoughtless chair.