User Review( votes)
written by: Austin Potter
I had convinced myself that life has no meaning; nothing more than borrowed time. Minutes, hours, and days sewn together by somber slumbers and waking dreams. At the time, there wasn’t anything that could persuade me otherwise. My thoughts were stone-straight — without indecision.
I was walking along the waterline, searching. My mind’s eye was fixed on the task at hand. I had heard a voice in the distance, “Hey!” I shifted my attention from one search to another; who’s calling for me? There, I saw a man walking towards me from out of the wooded area away from the river’s edge. As he came closer, I could see his face clearly. He was older.
“Hey, are you okay?” the man asked.
“Well, I’ve been watching you.”
“I thought that I was alone here.”
“You’re not. I’ve been watching you, what are you looking for?”
“My wife, she’s gone missing.”
We were driving through a town away from the main streets and throughways — something about it seemed familiar to me. “Where are we?” I asked.
“You’re kidding, right? You really don’t remember?” she answered.
“It’s where we first met.”
“Yeah, I thought that it seemed familiar. I must really be losing it, I keep forgetting things.”
She continued to talk about each and every detail and memories that we shared together; my mind began to wander. I’m still a young man. Maybe I should speak with a doctor. Maybe I need to see a therapist. “Are you listening to me? Ugh, it’s like I’m talking to a brick wall.” I turned my attention to the present. “Yes,” I told her as I watched the front doors of the houses pass by through the window counting each color that I saw.
After much searching, he found a nice place near the river. It was a small house with just a few rooms, a kitchen, and a bathroom. It was just what he had been looking for. At his age he desperately needed quiet — rest. It took a few weeks to settle in and arrange his things — furniture, clothing, and other assorted sundry items that he had collected over the years. He wasn’t a pack-rat — he was sentimental. He kept every scrap of paper, photograph, and birthday card. He kept anything that would bring a memory to his eye and take him to a different time and place — he was sentimental. In the mornings he’d take his time waking up, he’d drink coffee on the porch and watch the water moving slowly through the river. At night, he’d watch television until he was tired. Although, most of his time was spent thinking. He’d lost his wife years ago. Where is she now? Is she watching me? He knew that to be married was a struggle, and when thought back on it, he would smile. He missed his wife — he was sentimental.
I primarily write short stories and poetry.
I recently published a collection titled, "Town."