...He walked through the halls of his house. It wasn't small, it wasn't that big, but it was most certainly empty. He heard creaking, he heard doors shut, he heard laughter. He heard another life.
He went outside for an armload of kindling and caught the slow creak of chain on wood. In the deeper twilight underneath the large maple tree the ancient swing swayed gently.
He sat in front of his fire, his chair pulled up close. The flames cast jagged shadows across his face. He moved closer. Closer to the warmth, closer to the light, farther from the shadows.
They say that no man is an island. It's not true.
His head slumped forward. He dreamt of peace.
His ghosts surrounded him...
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4 comments:
I like this.
Gee, Willikers" is this is your idea of "happy"....... This is very, very good, I totally connected with this man in one paragraph, and I don't know the first thing about him, he could be a Nazi hidding in Peru, but you reached out and caught both my interest and pathos, nice job
(who is he by the way?)
Very good. I'm very intrigued. And indeed saying no man is an island is both true and false. The property of forensics, that interaction causes contamination, is usually true of people too. However, in the end, each of us is truly alone.
Right, so, good work!
Why thank you, thank you all! I actually don't know who the heck he is. None of my peeps. I can tell you that he has dark hair, average height, I'd say about 160-170, no facial hair and a disturbed look in his eye.
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