A sad story

This is a very depressing story. No, I didn't cry while writing it :), but it's still agonizingly sad...Still, I've decided to post it as it is the first sad story I have written.


The old man sits, slumped, on the chair by the window, a forgotten newspaper by his side. He used to enjoy reading, but lately the words swim before his tired old eyes, like blurry swarms of black insects or fishes. The eyes behind his thick glasses are bleary, with the deteriorating vision that comes with age.

His ears, however, are as sharp as ever. Hearing gay laughter, he gazes out the window
and sees shapes of young men and women in colourful dress, fluttering butterflies darting in and out of the sunshine. The neighbours are having a party.

Snatches of song reach the old man in the lonely little white house, and he remembers the garden parties of summers past. He remembers smooth green lawns, cheerful neighbours, and light summer salads and punch laid out on wooden tables. He remembers couples twirling along the grass, and remembers whirling around himself with a merry girl, Bess, his future wife. He smiles, remembering.

Then the vision is gone, and he is an old man once more, feeble and weak, no more the beaming bright boy of the past. His hands lie limp in his lap, hands weak but once strong, rough with work and mottled with age. He looks around his house, squinting through the glasses.

His house is a small one, filled with the relics of a long, long life. Each one triggers a memory, and he is happy for a moment, but when the dream fades, he wishes it hadn’t. His Bess’ gentle touches are all around, in the seashell mobile on the ceiling, in the carved wooden birds on the mantle, in the brightly painted bowls on the table, in the embroidered pillows in the bedroom.

The bedroom, with its double bed, occupied by only one now.

A tear slides down the wrinkled old cheek. The old man turns to the window once more, and hears a neighbour’s son shout, “Come on, Dad, and throw me another one!” Again the old man is transported back to the past, when his own son played catch with him in the backyard. “Come on, Dad, toss it over!” his son would yell, much like the boy across the street.

His son was a fine boy, brilliant and sensible, with a smile like sunshine. Now, he is a successful banker, more occupied with making money than anything else.

The old man has not seen him for a year.

True, he did come to Bess’ funeral, and did clasp the old man’s hands in his, and the young banker’s eyes had been full of tears. And true, he had given the old man over ten thousand dollars in cheques, and had said, “Go on, Dad, spend it however you want.” But then, he had turned and gone, and since then, almost a year, he had never visited.

The cheques are still in the safe of the old man’s house. The old man takes comfort in knowing that his son wants him to live well, but he wants something more than money, something too precious and sacred to put into words.

The old man bows his head, a sorrowful, hunched figure by the window. First, he had been a ruddy, merry boy, loved by all who saw him. Later on, he blossomed into a laughing young man, with a passionate zeal for life. He married, became a caring husband and a loving father. He was a diligent worker, a loyal friend and an upright man and citizen.

But now, he is only a lonely old man, with no one to love him.

All he has left are memories.

Flying Free

This is a short story written early in 2011. Quite a long time ago, but I think it's worth posting...hope you enjoy!


The first days, I could see nothing
but darkness. But I could feel – the rough scratchy sides of the nest, the
jostling of my siblings as they fought greedily for food. I could hear – the
comforting coos of my mother, the fierce cries of my father as he valiantly
defended his territory. I could taste – the slippery sweetness of earthworms
and the crunch of beetles, all brought to the brood by my devoted parents.
The days of darkness did not last
long, though. Soon, the big day came. The day when baby birds open their eyes
is always a milestone. I was the
first to open my eyes and see the wide world previously unknown to me. The
world was beautiful – unlike what I had imagined, but still beautiful. From the
high vantage point of our nest, through dense leafy branches I could see
rolling green hills, a bubbling, laughing stream, a cluster of trees huddled
together companionably. The azure blue sky stretched out over me, as far as my
newly opened eyes could see. The flowers swayed in a whispering breeze, bright
dots of colour against a lush green carpet. I felt overwhelmed by the sheer
size of it all.
For a couple of days, I was contented
to just peer out over the edge of the nest and admire the tranquillity in front
of me. But as time went by, I watched my parents fly off to search for food
with an increasing sense of longing. Flexing my weak wings impatiently, I gazed
yearningly at the fading shapes of my parents. When would I, too, be able to
leave the confines of the nest and experience the freedom that came with
flying?
My siblings were content to feast on
bugs, watch the world go by and wait for the right time to come. As for me, I
grew more restless each day.
One day, unable to wait any longer, I
decided to give flying a try. I stepped over the edge of the nest, flapped my
wings, and –
And plunged toward the ground at a
terrifying speed.
Shrieking in fear, I thrashed about
helplessly as the ground grew nearer and nearer. Good-bye, world, I thought
hopelessly.
Suddenly, a shadow swooped by and
under me. The picture of agility and grace, it spread its wings out and I
landed – thump! – on its firm back.
It was my father! One moment more and
it would have been too late. He carried me back up to the nest, where my
siblings’ frantic cries softened into chuckles of relief.
“Ah, you naughty thing,” my mother
chastised, tilting her downy head and surveying me with anxious eyes. “It is
not the time yet; you cannot fly, chicky.”
My father nodded sternly. “You are the
most rebellious one; as a punishment, you will be the last when the time does
come.”
The punishment wasn’t so bad,
considering, for I had waited so long it seemed that a few minutes would not
hurt. I had learned my lesson, and
burying my head into my mother’s soft feathers, I became a more patient bird
from that day forth.
Gradually, my straggly feathers
darkened and stiffened into flight feathers, and the muscles in my wings grew
strong. The time was near; all of us felt it.
And when the sun rose one balmy
morning, the time had come.
My siblings and I listened and watched
attentively as my father swooped and soared with experienced skill and my
mother kept up a running commentary. “See how he balances with his tail? Feet
tucked in, wings spread out, my dears, for that is the best position for
flight.”
My father did one more graceful loop
then landed with confidence on the edge of the nest. Perched there, he gestured
with one wing toward the open sky. “Your turn,” he said solemnly, for he was of
few words.
My mother shed a few sentimental
tears, saying, “Ah, chickies, do be careful. My babies are growing up!”
I watched my siblings depart, one by
one, not without fear and trepidation. However, they all mastered it quickly,
and perhaps it was a good thing I was made to go last, for my anxieties had all
but dissolved.
It was my turn! Eagerly, I spread out
my inexperienced wings and dived off the edge of the nest. For a moment I was
grasped by fear as I plummeted downwards. But the moment was soon over – I
flapped my wings hesitantly, then with more strength, and felt myself rising
through the air. Swooping to and fro, rising and falling with just a quick dip
of the wing, I was flooded with confidence. I laughed and plunged through the
sapphire sky.
I was flying free.

Blogger is being contrary and putting my story into strange lines and paragraphs. I don't know how to fix it without backspacing and spacing a lot, so I'm so sorry...I hope you can still enjoy the story! *rueful grin*
Rachel