Story: From the Fence
Title: From the Fence
Words: 512
Warnings: None
Challenge: Hands (brigits_flame , Week 4 October)
I don‘t know exactly when I first really noticed the old man but I must have been on my way home from school some time during summer. I know I must have passed his wooden house, which could have done with a new layer of paint, countless times before. I am sure I had seen him sitting on his rocking chair on the porch as well but as these things go, they are just that part of life that is first to fade out of memory.
Maybe I needed to be in just the right state of mind to take notice of him, or needed to look over the picket fence at his house at that precise moment but I vividly remember him sitting on that rocking chair holding a chicken on his lap.
There was nothing special about that chicken, it was simply an ordinary, reddish-brown chicken but just from the way the old man was holding it, it was evident how much the animal meant to him. One of his gnarled hands was keeping it stable while the other stroked over its feathers ever so tenderly. He was bent forward slightly and talking to it softly.
From what little I know about chickens, I would have expected it to struggle to regain its freedom but to my surprise, it sat perfectly still, enjoying the attention it was getting. Touched by this perfect picture of peace, I slowly continued my way along the fence, not taking my eyes off them.
Whenever I passed his house after that, I always looked whether the old man and his chicken were to be seen. On some days, I could see him bent over on his walking stick, scattering a handful of seeds for his waiting chicken. On other days, he was just sitting on the rocking chair with a soft smile on his face, watching the chicken scratch for a worm in the grass or once again stroking the chicken on his lap. Sometimes, I didn’t see either of them but when I did, my day was just that tiny bit brighter and whatever problems were worrying me at the time seemed a little less important.
It was some time in the summer a year after I had first noticed the old man that I realised I hadn’t seen either the man or his chicken in quite some time. Out of hope and habit, I kept looking for them but after a while, I had to admit to myself that I probably wouldn’t be seeing them again.
A few weeks into August, a bright blue ball suddenly rolled out in front of me when I passed the house. Looking over, I saw a little boy running towards the fence while his father pushed open the front door to carry in some of the cartons stacked on the porch.
I picked up the ball as the boy reached the picket fence. Placing the ball into small hands, I bent my mouth into a sad smile, remembering gnarled old hands stroking reddish feathers.
Words: 512
Warnings: None
Challenge: Hands (brigits_flame , Week 4 October)
I don‘t know exactly when I first really noticed the old man but I must have been on my way home from school some time during summer. I know I must have passed his wooden house, which could have done with a new layer of paint, countless times before. I am sure I had seen him sitting on his rocking chair on the porch as well but as these things go, they are just that part of life that is first to fade out of memory.
Maybe I needed to be in just the right state of mind to take notice of him, or needed to look over the picket fence at his house at that precise moment but I vividly remember him sitting on that rocking chair holding a chicken on his lap.
There was nothing special about that chicken, it was simply an ordinary, reddish-brown chicken but just from the way the old man was holding it, it was evident how much the animal meant to him. One of his gnarled hands was keeping it stable while the other stroked over its feathers ever so tenderly. He was bent forward slightly and talking to it softly.
From what little I know about chickens, I would have expected it to struggle to regain its freedom but to my surprise, it sat perfectly still, enjoying the attention it was getting. Touched by this perfect picture of peace, I slowly continued my way along the fence, not taking my eyes off them.
Whenever I passed his house after that, I always looked whether the old man and his chicken were to be seen. On some days, I could see him bent over on his walking stick, scattering a handful of seeds for his waiting chicken. On other days, he was just sitting on the rocking chair with a soft smile on his face, watching the chicken scratch for a worm in the grass or once again stroking the chicken on his lap. Sometimes, I didn’t see either of them but when I did, my day was just that tiny bit brighter and whatever problems were worrying me at the time seemed a little less important.
It was some time in the summer a year after I had first noticed the old man that I realised I hadn’t seen either the man or his chicken in quite some time. Out of hope and habit, I kept looking for them but after a while, I had to admit to myself that I probably wouldn’t be seeing them again.
A few weeks into August, a bright blue ball suddenly rolled out in front of me when I passed the house. Looking over, I saw a little boy running towards the fence while his father pushed open the front door to carry in some of the cartons stacked on the porch.
I picked up the ball as the boy reached the picket fence. Placing the ball into small hands, I bent my mouth into a sad smile, remembering gnarled old hands stroking reddish feathers.