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, Leif.

Remember, have no bit good.

You have to embedded them in your mind. 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, 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

...