gray

A Story by czech

An unfinished work of mine. i included the ending so that if i never finish it you can still know where it goes. The gap in story line is indicated by the stars.

Rain crashed onto the window and sprayed into swiftly moving figurines intimately enveloped in their routine. They shone beautifully and then were taken by surprise as they suddenly were strewn upon the window sill. This loss was not tragic though, as another was created in its place that took upon the role of dancing ever closer to the ground, down the treacherous face of brick. Into the mud they merged, where into the collective cloud of dirt their beauty was taken from them and lost almost immediately in spiraling the fumes of gravel. The contributing members of the puddle all shrieked as one and receded into the ground as the sole of a tired shoe pierced its heart. It was being dragged toward the house.
A single light shone from within, as if in a feeble attempt to welcome someone home. It was a snug house, warm colors meandered around the trim and it had reclined into a blanket of trees. It predated the garage and seemed quite comfortable with its age. Its architectural lines seemed to welcome gravity, rather than oppose it. A masterfully crafted porch creaked under the weight of a man clad in grey. His mane was soaked and seemed be leading a revolt against his head for exposing it to the elements, and his wispy hair was content to ride out the storm under a bowlers cap. Once inside, the man shed his coat and put out a candle, trying not to remember ever having lit it.
The floor was angry, and yelled at the man for burdening it with its weight, so he ran on light feet to a more forgiving staircase. Upon his realisation of what time it was, he ascended to his room. This fortress of his was made up of mounds of soft linen and cotton, heaps of pillows and silk curtains hanging in front of the windows. They were light blue curtains that cast their color upon the rest of the room when they were in full view of the sun. This effect, coupled with a lack of color throughout the room, created an elated sky blue platform from which he would dive into his subconscious and create a world of his liking free of the constant threats and troubles of reality. In the morning he would wake to watch the sun rise and then pace through the halls of his house and sing to everything that lived there.
The house was nestled in between an old pine forest and a clear river inhabited by trout, and during the fall, salmon. The man would often sit out by the river and watch them make their way upstream. This was a tradition of his as it was the first thing that he did upon his purchase of the property when he was just a young man. There was a clearing that surrounded the mouth of an estuary where he would sit. He let the grass grow long here, and some years it would grow long enough for him to lay down and be completely hidden from the world. There was a mound of earth clinging to the roots of an old maple tree that made for a good throne. From its vantage point the whole river would turn from tinted blue glass into a magnificent autumn maroon porcelain upon the departure of the sun.
Rarely did the man leave his property. Years ago he had taken to canning all sorts of fruits and vegetables and meats, so that grocery shopping didn’t seem necessary. The majority of his basement was filled with boxes of the preserved foods, and when a fresh item was desired he would, depending on the season, either walk to the wild raspberry patch next to the river, or to the field of fruit trees that he had planted behind his house. He was able to live in this manner because of a somewhat large inheritance that he had acquired from his parents, and having no social connections in the town, he was quite content to live, and eventually die this way
He would talk though, just so that he could remember how to think. If he forgot to speak he was afraid that his conscious mind would slip away. He had remembered how to talk through stories as well, using no medium he would create intricate worlds where he could live and feel safe. These would unravel so easily, and reveal the mundane world around him. Words would not last, and this was his ever present trouble. Every morning he would stay under the sheets for as long as he could, until he would finally reveal himself to the word
His toaster could be so stingy, it would never give up its creations. The man would have to force it out, much like he imagined one would do to a dog. Every time he would explain to it that the toast was really his, and the toaster would always respond with the same defiance riddled stare. This was never taken too heavily though, as both sides of the matter were seen by the man. He would leave the kitchen appliances alone on most days. They were all the same in the manner that they conducted themselves. He preferred the tranquil and reclined ways of the cellar. It always wore the same stain of aging, but with an essence of pride. The rust was its flowing mane, and the cobwebs were it woven hair. The man enjoyed it the most though for the cool, age old silence. It allowed him to relax his perception even further, so that the lies of the tangible could no longer be heard and his mind could sculpt worlds beyond color and sound and into feeling. Everything could revolve around a single idea so fluently as to wrap him up inside of it and keep him warm.
His ideas often revolved around the river or the the house, but they were somehow magically enhanced. They were really alive, and they would really talk back, not that they didn’t in reality, it's just that they were so much more genuine in his head. they would usually be occupied by many many guests from his dreams, protectors and enemies alike. In this setting, it was impossible for hostile feelings to arise, and so they would all dance and run and fly as friends, always indulging in their beautiful world. The man would leave only upon his loss of the fantastical images, and return to his life upon the forced command of his conscious brain.
The house Seemed to tell when he would leave, and it would always scream to come with him. It would scream upon his departure, and scream upon his arrival. It would scream upon the most mundane tasks and accomplishments and it would vent its anger throughout the night.

***
On a Friday, with the wind sterile and relentless in its onslaught against the houses exposed quarters, the man walked out into the heaving gray world and made his way to the river. The air had inhabited the foliage upon the ground. The sleeping blades of grass next to the river had been ripped out and replaced by swinging limbs and gripping teeth that were entangled in the roots and cavities of the earth. He dipped his body into the eddy behind a fallen maple tree, and through the spectral water he saw the expended bodies of an entire generation of salmon that nature had deemed useless. In unison with the movements of his house, the man dove into the silty grey water and out of his torment.