An elderly man sat on a rocking chair, alone in his house. Two windows hung, soulless and vast, while a crimson door stood closed and locked. The wallpaper sloughed, and it reeked of smoke, while rafters loomed above, their cores rotten through. Care had abandoned the house, care the man never gave.
It started after the storm, when the damp would pool in darkened patches and drip down onto the floor. The old man always had buckets, a half measure for ailing thatching, yet that day he had not enough. Rain seeped into the floorboards, yet he thought little of it.
The next day he was alarmed. From the puddle sprouted an amber bloom, a quaint flower with pale white stem. He tried his best to ignore it, “Plants won’t grow unwatered,” he thought. Another day passed, then another, one became two and two became four.
It was spreading and he could not neglect it. He ripped and tore, uprooted the flowers till his body gave in and fell to slumber. Yet the next day, they were there again in equal number. More drastic measures were required.
From the warehouse, he took, herbicides and poisons, then dashed them against the orange. They shriveled and receded, and the man saw fit they would not come again.
Yet when the day passed, the orange reappeared and he was distraught. “It was feeding on the rot,” he thought, and indeed it was. With renewed vigor, he began to repair; resurfaced the floor, painted the walls and renewed the thatching. Yet every day of work hard fought, the orange bloom did not recede. It spread, and spread, and spread. Till soulless windows cast amber light. Till pale veins webbed over crimson door. Till the old man could do naught but lay in fatigue. All he can do now is sit in his rocking chair. For_ the foundations are rotten, they had begun to rot since care abandoned them_
I really liked this literary piece, poetry and fantasy mix to give a beautiful touch of harmony to the story. Very good work.
Thanks for sharing.
Good day.
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