Alright, these are two little oneshots I wrote a while back. Stranger came first and I was pretty fond of it so I decided to write a second part, which is A Dreary Day in December. It doesn't really matter what order you read them in, or even if you read both of them. I just put them in the same post because they belong together. Any reviews are appreciated! =]
~Stranger
I see it all; everything that goes on around me. I'm but a quiet spectator, always watching, never speaking. Yes, people see me but, since I've been here so long, they scarcely ever notice my presence. As a result, I see many things other souls are excluded from; things of private delicacy that shouldn't be intruded upon, things of friendly rambunctious-ness where everyone is welcome, and things of personal tragedy that should be kept secret. And I never forget. For what would become of a silent observer if they forgot everything they saw?
Yes, I remember the giggling couple that sat on the little wooden bench. I remember the two high school boys' first awkward kiss. I remember the family picnics, the happy gatherings, the sad contemplations that play out in front of me. But I specifically remember the melancholy young boy I never knew.
It was a bright day. Sunny and fair. Plenty of light for a healthy tree. A young boy, maybe sixteen, sat on the grass in front of me. From his expression and way of sitting I could tell he was thinking very hard about something. A friend maybe… He came to the same spot many more times over the next few months, sometimes staying until after dark, never speaking a word, always alone. I particularly remember one rainy day in December when he sat leaning against my trunk, almost saddened by my barren limbs. He wore a thin jacket with no hood. His face was wet, partly from rain. He stayed there for a long time just watching the water fall, listening to its pattering. At length, he stood and left without a backwards turn. That was the last time he ever came. I don't have any idea what happened to him, but I do remember a distinct little sound. It was the potent clipping of many small things confined, muffled slightly by falling rain and soaked cloth. It seems that the feeling he gave off had definite finality about it, and I can't be sure of what it means, but I've always wondered if that boy ever made it to his next year of life.
~ A Dreary Day in December
The day was cold and dreary, the sky shone a bleak gray, and brown leaves littered the freezing, cracked sidewalk. Across the street, two black birds cawed and clawed at each other, rolling over and over in the street as one tackled the other. A black and white cat watched intently from its yard, crouched low in the grass. The boy in the dark coat walked on, amused and disappointed by the ugliness of nature. He hated December. The wind softly whistled through his hair and he pulled the collar closer to his face. He had only a vague idea of where his feet were leading him, as lost in his thoughts as he was, but he really didn't care as long as he got the to end of the road.
He felt almost numb as the winter wind blew, and he was only loosely aware of the small container in his pocket, from which emanated faint but potent clipping sounds with every other step he took. Slowly it began to drizzle, the cold, wintry rain only a few degrees away from freezing in his dark hair. He ignored it and kept walking, clenching the small bottle in his pocket. Somehow it seemed a comfort to him as it grew warm in his hand.
Presently he could make out a tree through the mist that had accumulated with the rain. Like so many times before, he made his way up the small, slick hill it sat on, only stumbling a few times, and rested beneath its barren limbs, noticing as he did so, the last crinkled leaf battered off a branch by a mere rain drop. He sighed and watched the rain drizzle on before him, only partially protected by the dead and sodden branches above. He listened to the sound it made when hitting various objects, watched as a few animals and insects scurried for cover. After a while, his thoughts drifted back to the bottle in his pocket and the words printed across the front of it, 'Aspirin: Extra Strength Pain Reliever.' He remembered hearing somewhere that it was supposed to be exceedingly good for the heart and thought it interesting that too much could stop its beating. Recalling the two-capsule recommendation, he mentally scoffed, and thought, 'Well, it's quite a headache I've got on my hands...,' then stood to leave with no intention of returning home.
