Some more creative writing...

Thought I'd share something else I'm beginning to work on with you...I've been a bit lax with my writing recently...Life can be very distracting! I really need to find some renewed enthusiasm...

(Working title: A Love Story)

The old man sat very still in the beaten beige armchair that faced towards the patio window. He couldn’t move. He was forced to sit. He was forced to watch the day draw to a close. At this moment he felt a strange connection with his surroundings. As the light grew dim he felt his own life fading. He sensed that this day would be his last.

His eye sight was poor but he could make out the blood red orb descending, sinking slowly below the skyline. As it fell, it coloured the land in a wide spectrum of colours. The cornfields glimmered golden and swayed. The lone tractor that faintly hummed towards home, grew dark and misshapen. The pumpkins in the pumpkin patch hardened and blended with their shadows so he could no longer see globes, just thick grey lines that stretched and crept up over the fences, disappearing into the blue woods. His world had long ago become an Impressionist’s painting. If he’d had any artistic talent he might have earned his fortune, but what need did he have for money now?

He breathed in; his lungs rattled, he breathed out, the air hummed and scratched. A rickety old gramophone. The hours were long, so very long, sitting there, waiting for death to come. There was little to do to pass the time except think, think an awful lot. Still, it had taken him a small while to appreciate the music and rhythm in his own breath. These lessons came only at the very end. It was a comfort to know that you could still learn new things in old age. Sometimes, when thinking grew to be tiresome, he’d just listen to his breath. In and out, in and out, like the tide.

He watched, he waited, the room swayed gently. A thought flashed through his mind to try and call for help. For a moment he felt afraid. This was it. Did he want to die alone? It was very quiet. The nurses were off elsewhere. One would be in eventually. The first thing she’d do is flick the switch. A ghastly florescent light would fill the room. Then it would be glaringly obvious – no dignity, nowhere to hide, just a raw and rather ugly, illuminated scene. Probably the same way he came into the world, pink and vulnerable, features contorted with displeasure under a brightly lit hospital lamp. He didn’t fancy that. If he had the strength he’d creep away, find a hole or bush and curl up and die like a wild animal. Better to pass away in the shadows, to die with the light. It appealed to his poetic side. He did not cry out.

Having made this decision he felt calm again. He prepared himself. He focused on the sun. The sun, that faithful, awesome entity that he had known well for the last eighty-five years. The only thing that never seemed to change. He could feel its warmth withdrawing.

‘Goodbye, old friend,’ he thought ‘Thanks for everything.’

His eyelids were heavy. He didn’t struggle. He didn’t have the energy. Yet as they fell he saw through the mist and muddle, the sun, the setting, a shape move towards him. The little life within him surged and fought against their falling, curiosity lived on. Before they shut forever, he wished to know this one last thing.

The shape loomed closer. A grey shape of curves and bumps. It came from across the field and into the room. It made no sound, but it hovered near, just above him.

The Angel of Death…?

Something brushed his face. A touch so gentle he felt involuntary tears spring from his eyes and spill over his wrinkled, worn cheek. A voice inside told him he knew this shape, this figure.

Then something changed.

Instead of rapidly descending dark numbness, something stirred from the very depths within him. A forgotten generator switched on. It hummed gently and the cogs slowly began to turn again. A warm glow moved through his body. Molten honey trickled through, sweetening his wispy, shrivelled veins. A feeling he’d long ago forgotten stirred within him, an unexpected feeling, an alarming feeling: desire.

It possessed him, strengthened him and drew his body out of slumber. He responded like a wilting flower welcomes the rain. The heaviness eased, his heart pumped blood round his body with renewed vigour and his senses sharpened. A sharp scent filled his nostrils - white, lingering, powdery lily. The room came into focus and the grey entity took form. She had her back towards him. She was watching the sunset.

She wore a long, old fashioned dress that began at her cheekbone and followed her body’s contours until it just brushed the floor. Her auburn hair was tightly wound and coiled on top of her head, stray pieces fluttered and waved in the air.

Yes, he knew this woman. He did not need to see her face, to recognise her. He knew her very, very well, for it was she who he had quietly locked inside his heart and carried with him for the last sixty-five years. It had almost been a lifetime, but he remembered.