Ollie

Just practice of writing descriptively.

[Ollie]

           

            The uninvited sunshine edged its way through the thin, cheap, plastic, rectangular blinds, illuminating the room that was once filled with blissful reverie. Rays of light danced throughout the space in an almost frenzied manner. The alarm, startled by all the commotion began its revolt, incessantly yelling. A squeak of a bed frame now came into being and a body in the fetal position began slowly to turn toward the quagmire that awaited it. Eyelids still tightly encrusted with the dust of slumber, quivered. A bony hand slid from linen to plastic bringing about the end of the horrendous cacophony that had plagued the small room. Silence had been restored, but the celebration was short lived. The eyelids so tightly shackled by the crust of slumber began to break wide open. A loud yawn followed by a sigh broke the revelry of silence. The body became more and more animated, with sheets rustling and bed springs popping the body rose. The hand that had brought the demise of the alarm clock scraped away the remnants of slumber and the eyes darted back at the fallen enemy. The digital, fluorescent numbers read, 7:30am. The morning had arrived and with it an ugly reality that no reverie could alleviate, for this was the last morning.

Thousands had been rushed out of the town the night before. The war was barreling through every brick laden street and white picket fence. It ceased for no one. That is where the body, who we refer to as Ollie, comes in to play. He is a fluke. A mistake. An omission. Something that is, but should not be. He should be long gone with the thousands, but he’s not. He still remains. However, Ollie does not remain out of choice, he remains out of duress. The years have not been good to Ollie, they’ve stolen from him, tortured him, and filled his heart with hopes consecrated in fallacy. Our good ole’ boy fought gallantly in the last war, for a small price. One mind and one body. The war racked his brain, twisted and mangled it, until there was nothing left, but remnants of his old self. His body fared little better in comparison. With even small movements, tendons snapped and bones ached. His skin resembled the thickness and texture of stationary paper. Speckled with cuts and bruises, his body was held together by a patch work of brown bandages that shielded some of his uncertain wounds. His wrinkled head still clung to the history of a few gray old friends, but was almost completely bald. His legs were rocky and his knees quivered when he walked, making any attempt for a glass of water an arduous journey. He lived with only himself, a battered decrepit old hero that had lost his chance at escape, not the night before, but years earlier.

            As Ollie sat upright in his bed, he began to remember. This morning was one of the good ones, when his memories tuned in clear. He remembered who he was, his old friends, his old lovers, his old wife, his old family. They were exactly that he thought. “Old.” “Old and gone.” He exclaimed as he threw his legs over the side of the bed, he was about to make the arduous journey, until a sharp whistle interrupted him. He knew what it was. A whistle like that, one that roared louder and louder until it roared no more, was the whistle of war. He closed his eyes and stood up.