Passacaglia

An old man sits alone in a rocking chair at the window. It squeaks rhythmically as he bobs, lost in thought. Each adjustment is a chance for disaster for his cat who’s tail is just short getting caught underneath. The cat and the man both unaware, and therefore heed no mind. They stare out the window together. One sees each movement in the leaves, each bird’s feathers ruffle. One sees the past. He remembers the bullet’s song well and feels the sting of its loss.

The old man’s eyes are clouded over now. He can no longer notice the sway of the grass or the intricate colors of his daughter’s flowers. He rocks in meditation remembering a time long ago. The time he met his wife, back in ‘45. She was waiting at the station, though not for him. Her brother didn’t come back from the war and in her grief she grabbed the nearest solider. That solider was him. Married sixty years. Had a couple of kids. All in all, a good, empty life.

The old man’s skin is weathered, with a few whips of hair still remaining. He joked once that he could color them both. As a joke, he tried it. He stopped laughing when he discovered he was allergic to the chemicals. Who would have guessed, after all they put him through to fight for his country that a bottle of hair dye could come close to taking him out. 

The old man remembered how there had been heavy shell fire for weeks. He had wondered how either side still had bullets. He had wondered if there had been any casualties or if people were just shooting at the cover, hoping to get lucky and clip a fellow in the trenches. He looked down sadly at the cat, who was chattering at something outside. He leaned forward to pet the cat and came down on it’s tail. The cat screamed and scampered away. It’s feet moving faster than it could gain traction as it slid across the wood and out of sight. Somewhere in another room his wife dropped something heavily. It boomed in his ears louder than was possible. He ducked down instinctively, covering his head, which was the position he was in as his wife rushed in, rubbing her hands on a damp towel. 

Updates

 Hello all... writing to let you know there's much more but I've been keeping it private for now. Latest piece is about 9k words so far. Anyway, I'm still around and there is more. I hope you all will enjoy when it gets released.

Naïlo

It cannot end like this. 

There’s a duality to nature. A cruel mistress skulking around in the forgotten bits of my mind. I find myself looking at her and I see her as she was. As she is. 

I remember the laughter on her face. Tears of joy and levity. I wish more than anything to return to a time so well preserved. I remember how I wanted to wrap her in my arms. Stay with her until I was old and withered. And it’s this thought every time I see her. The past, haunting me. 

It cannot end like this...

She sat with me. A chill lingered in the air that pinched my chest. Almost forget when I was. 

She’s dying. 

Somehow knowing this opens every wound - every loss I’ve known. How can this hurt more than everything? I’ve known death. How is this moment so different that it leaves me in bittersweet agony? I see the laughter of her voice. I feel her standing there, bleeding yet strong. I know everything she’s ever been and I shatter.

It just cannot end. It cannot...

Yes of course I’ll help her. Of course my love, my dear. 

There’s a knife stabbing into me and it twists each time I think of her. She touches me and I live our life once more. A broken sob betrays me. 

Please don’t let it end like this.

I’m walking alone at the shore. Cold claiming my body making hard to breathe. The sun’s rays hold no warmth, no light. She lets go of my hand laughing and running into the surf. 

My knees make hard divots in the sand. She’s gone. She’s gone. 

Forgive me my selfishness.

I cannot let this end.