So, here's a short story.
Nothing brilliant or flashy.
It doesn't possess a point, or moral.. It's just simply a snapshot of a moment.
Insert deep, emotionally affecting title.
He had
seen it all, seen everything; been a witness to change. The old man, his cat
and his ancient, lone, stained, red-brick house standing as a testament to the
past. A year, even less than, this white, sterile building crept upwards, a
chasm breaking apart the very foundation of familiarity that the old man was so
dependent on.
The
house across the road remained undisturbed for days. It was not a home, it was
a building; there was no warmth or life to it. On sunny days its sharp, square
edges were defamation to the clear, blue sky and the light tufts of white-grey
cotton candy that drifted past. It was rainy days that the old man would turn
to his cat and say:
“Ugly.
Ugly! The building does not deserve the suns sweet caress!”
When the
weather was foul, the old man felt it was one of his agents revealing the true
colours of the building, across the road. He could taste the tones of grey, the
sharp acidic sting of its corners, and the musky, bitter taste of industry on
the tip of his tongue.
* * *
The old
man stared up into the ceiling. The small particles of dust bouncing upwards
filling the room with every movement he made. The sun sifted through, spilling
over the gaps in the blinds, unwavering. It captured each spec, turning
ordinary dead cells to life, shimmering and hovering in mid-air. A single sigh,
he turned to his side. A wrinkled hand reached out, tracing the frame of a
wedding photo. If it wasn’t for the stark, icy blue eyes of the man within the
photo and the old man, the couple would have been barely recognisable.
With
sudden vitality he shot up and the startled cat leaped from the bed into the
floor.
It was
routine: kettle—on, radio—on , cat—fed, water—boiled , tea, two slices of
buttered toast and marmalade jam, sound of a loud automobile and a shrill
voice?
“Darling
it’s perfect, magnificent, simply divine, a masterpiece of innovation!”
“Poppycock”
uttered the old man as he took an irritated bite from one slice, “She must have
no taste, no taste at all!”
Revelling
in disapproval he gave into temptation. He had to steal a glance.
The
burgundy vehicle sat stationary in the front of the building across the road.
Its fumes mixed into the air, making a noxious concoction. He watched on. Out
came a women—slender figure, trench coat the colour of perfectly baked bread,
short, bobbed, neatly curled hair and a navy, velvet hat.
She
leant languidly on the car lifting a small foot enclosed in a tailored, leather
heel into the rim of the door. She caught the glimpse of an outline protected
by window shades, turned towards it and gave a delicate, warm smile and a
little wave.
The old
man stood frozen, paralysed, by his first glimpse of her face. The gentle
outline of her lips, the shining, emerald eyes and peachy cheeks filled his
body with a tingle he had not felt in years—starting from the centre of his
body reaching out to the ends of his toes. It was nostalgia. He dared to look
away, to compare. The frame was sitting just nearby on the side table, the one
he touched every morning.
Taking
one last glance, he pulled the blinds shut.