She smelled her white hair and watched the old woman in the mirror do
the same, the white hair that no child would ever blow in the wind.
Red
and yellow forests grew in the hillside just beneath the old house. As
the sun set behind the old chimney, its strange skyline figure
resembled an old owl tilting her head to one side. Black crows were
resting their wings on her curved back, only announcing their presence
with occasional wriggling with their heads and tails and loud
outbursts, as crows often do. The long path leading up the hill from
the main road further down the valley was paved with flagstones, all of
which were either cracked or quite decayed from years without
maintenance. Weeds were dwelling on each side and the grass,
surrounding the building, was high and unattended and covered with
dandelions that were about to shut their yellow eye for the night.
Two
eyes were there in the window, staring out into the dusk through brown
irises. White hair and wrinkles surrounding them like the white of an
egg protecting the yolk. The woman's neck was as thin as it was ancient
and was framed by a narrow string of precious metal. A gilded necklace
acting as a paradox by itself, as little else seemed precious about the
old woman's appearance. Her left hand toyed with a lock of her hair,
counting the strands over and over again. Hands covered in long, rough
and sleepless memories.
"Few
come this way these days," she mumbled, mostly to herself. A habit of
hers, it seemed, or perhaps a gesture to keep the black and white
photographs on the walls company. They all looked like honourable men
and women; one wearing a top hat, another wearing expensive looking
clothing. A woman was wearing a thin, gilded necklace - she was the
last picture on the western wall.
Few
indeed came that way these days. The people in the valley were busy
with their own businesses. In the distance she could hear the noise
from the sawmill down in the valley. She remembered when the sawmill
settled down by the old road. People flocked to its gates with their
hats in their skinny hands. Soon more buildings came where once trees
grew, and then came the cars and the motorcycles and the crafting of
railings to keep strangers on the other side of them. She seldom walked
around the shopping area anymore, for all the houses there were like
strangers to her now. They looked down at her like young men in suits,
talking of nothing but stock prices and throwing devices and strange
fruits in her direction. She didn't care much for those devices, or for
the fruits for that matter.
Slowly
the old woman turned away from the window, descending a small staircase
and continuing in the direction of a desk and a chair. The small, dusty
study was overrun with books and pencils and sheets of paper, all of
them stories, plays and poems that were eagerly started, but never
finished.
In the
corner next to the dusty study stood a mirror; tall and oval and proud.
The mirror was indeed a window of truth, gazing like a mangy dog into
her heart. Carefully the old woman started undressing, putting all her
clothes in a small pile on the wooden floor. Naked she gazed at her
ancient figure and stroked her skin with her rough hands. A queen of an
age long passed. A pair of lips with no memory of a mate. A pair of
breasts that had never fed an infant. She sank into the dusty chair.
She smelled her white hair and watched the old woman in the mirror do
the same, the white hair that no child would ever blow in the wind.
And with her skinny fingers, she played the only tune she had ever known.
The
crows resting on the roof of the old house were quiet now, and the
horizon bled the sky in the west. When nightfall comes birds stop their
singing, and even the crows fell silent. Only the sawmill down in the
valley did not cease its toneless song, a song that had come to stay.
Soon the leaves would fall from the trees and snow would cover the
landscape. Then no one would see the weeds on the path in the garden,
and the dandelions would shut their eyes forever.
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Written by Asferthecat (859 comments posted) 22nd June 2008 | An atmospheric story. Some of it was difficult to understand eg "The white hair that no child would blow in the wind."
There were three "old"s in the first two sentences.
It needs polishing but I liked the picture you drew of a lonely old woman. |
Written by merte123 (1 comments posted) 22nd June 2008 | Thanks for the comment. The tree "olds" I didn't notice myself before you mentioned it.
When it comes to the sentance "The white hair that no child would blow in the wind.", this sort of is the main theme of the story. The woman's white hair resembles the dandelion. When a dandelion grows old it turns white with seeds. These seeds are often blown by children and they makes the flower's genes continue when it dies. It means that the old woman has no children. The sentence "And with her skinny fingers, she played the only tune she had ever known." means that she is also a virgin (she masturbates). |
Written by Emmuttmax (203 comments posted) 22nd June 2008 | This shows promise, but as it stands, it suffers from the burden of overwriting, lack of logic, and less-than-brilliant metaphors.
As Asferthcat mentioned, overuse of the word "old" in the first two sentences will normally stop a reader from continuing.
The first paragraph is just an indication of problems to come. Here are some suggestions to improve it:
Original: "Red and yellow forests grew in the hillside just beneath the old house. As the sun set behind the old chimney, its strange skyline figure resembled an old owl tilting her head to one side. Black crows were resting their wings on her curved back, only announcing their presence with occasional wriggling with their heads and tails and loud outbursts, as crows often do. The long path leading up the hill from the main road further down the valley was paved with flagstones, all of which were either cracked or quite decayed from years without maintenance. Weeds were dwelling on each side and the grass, surrounding the building, was high and unattended and covered with dandelions that were about to shut their yellow eye for the night."
Re-Write: From the flagstone path leading through the red and yellow forest up to the house, you could see the crumbling chimney backlit by the setting sun. Missing bricks and mortar had turned the once-stately edifice into something resembling an owl with its head tilted. Crows were perched like sentries along the spine of the roof, cawing out an occasional comment to one another. It wasn't hard to see the house had once been a jewel, but age and inattention dulled its beauty. The only jewelry now in sight were the yellow dandelions, and they were about to shut their eyes for the night.
I'm not saying this is the perfect paragraph, but only a suggestion to help clear the clutter and set a better scene. You also might want to rethink the egg metaphor; as used, it would make the old lady's face rather runny.
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