Young Writers Society

Hi, everyone! So, this is one of the stories I'm planning to enter in this year's Scholastic Art and Writing Awards! Please review!

A Dishonorable Pact With Solitude

The old man would wake up early every morning, when the sky was still gray and the sun still hidden. He would wake up in that transparent period, when people think of getting up, but don’t. He always got up then. He would move about his tiny house, aching bones creaking through his wrinkled skin. He’d sip a cup of coffee all alone, and he would relish that loneliness. But like all things, once relished too much his loneliness became sour, and he’d grab his cane and push open the door.

If it was summer, the sun would make him retreat back inside. Michigan summers were always far too hot to be born. If winter, he’d huddle in his blankets upstairs and watch old movies on his TV, sliding in the ancient tapes one after another, and rewinding them to the beginning. Spring was too pleasant for the old man. He liked his seasons cantankerous. If it was that sweet season, he’d close all the blinds and drown himself in the shadows, hobbling back and forth like a drunk pigeon.

Luckily, it was fall. The old man liked fall. There was something akin to himself in its nature. Or at least, that was what he felt. He’d never asked anyone. He’d never had anyone to ask. Still, he enjoyed it. He’d stand outside, cane out, coat wrapped around his thin shoulders. The leaves would hurtle past him in various shades of brown and red. The grass would hide, eventually succumbing to age and withering. The trees would stand naked and tall, reaching out for the sky with gnarled fingers.

The old man left his house one fall morning, stumbling along the sidewalk, a lonely bundle of black coat and hat. He trailed along, past falling-apart Victorian mansions and grimy newer houses. There were the block houses, single square buildings, utilitarian and ugly. A couple cars crawled past him, long trucks coughing out gasoline. Their driver’s eyes passed over him. Just another old fellow. The old man snorted resentfully. His nose dripped, and he rubbed it.

The houses eventually drifted away, replaced with rusty lamp posts, and LED signs. Faded brick buildings proclaimed their demises, with large black signs stating in red letters, ‘SOLD.’ A couple figures trailed along downtown, though usually more would be there. Michigan falls were too cold for most. The old man grinned with satisfaction. He couldn’t stand people, and viewed solitude as good for the soul.

The other people trailed along, caught up in their own thoughts, and the old man shivered past them. A pimply teenager in a black sweatshirt listened to music, glancing up occasionally with the impetuous scorn of the young for his surroundings. An older woman puffed on a cigarette, before extinguishing it on the heel of her shoe. Some critical out-of-towner glanced up at a couple of shops with impatience, looking for a breakfast shop. His eye seized on the old man.

"You’re from here, right? Could you tell me where a breakfast place is?"

The old man coughed, eyeing the man with scorn.

"McDonalds on the left."

The man rolled his eyes imperceptibly, and then turned away, wondering faintly what kind of town it was where the only good restaurant was a McDonalds. He shook his head slowly as he got into his car. This is why I moved to the city.

The old man headed along the main road, towards the section of town where recently a chain of gas stations and fast food shops had sprung up. He passed one of the older buildings, and heard the pleasant growl of the bulldozer as it crushed the monument to make way for a Burger King. The old man rubbed his dripping nose.

Times just aren’t what they used to be, he mused dispassionately. He saw the church up ahead, a veritable brown-bricked cathedral. He felt a mild sense of nostalgia, despite not being religious, and pushed open the door. He splashed a couple drops of holy water on his lined forehead, and sat at one of the pews, gazing unabashedly around.

The scent of incense hung in the air, and the golden tabernacle glowed under the wooden crucifix. The signs of the cross were carved on the sides, and meticulously painted in multiple colors. A couple people were scattered around, murmuring prayers into pearl and gold rosaries. Once the old man felt he had gotten enough religion from the experience, he quietly left, trailing out of the reverent silence into the choking gasps of the cars.

Once more he headed down the road, to his final destination, and the most important one. He trailed past some of the better-repaired houses, glancing approvingly at a large white-pillared nineteenth century mansion, with gleaming windows. He cast an interested look at the fairgrounds, currently empty. And there it was. The park.

He entered it slowly, passing under ragged trees and sleepy benches. He didn’t even cast a glimpse to the iron gate surrounding the paradise. He made his camp on the grass, leaning against a fur tree and breathing in slowly as he watched people. A mother was trying to reason with a fractious child. Some biology students from the local high school glanced dispassionately at pine needles. A sleepy middle-aged woman painted an atrocious picture of a leaf. The old man watched them with satisfaction.

These were his people. He knew when they came, or at least was used to seeing them. They would walk in occasionally, with their typical actions and movements. They would talk and feel, and he would watch. They were important to him, as important as a well-loved possession. His people.

He shook his head with annoyance. And weren’t they horrid people at that! Like everyone else, just stuck in their own world. What about me? What about everyone else? He really couldn’t stand people. It was things like that, things like their total involvement in themselves that pushed his buttons. The mother spoke sharply to the sobbing child, chastising it for throwing a tantrum instead of alerting her of the problem.

The old man got up slowly, gradually, easing his way along the path to the park exit. He bumped into the mother, also leaving. She looked surprised, and helped him up.

"You come here often?"

He pushed away, stumbling along the long path to the exit. He saw the mother outside, looking at a sign and pursing her lips. Something about ‘a shame.’ He moved outside and glanced at the gate, peering at the sign with tired eyes. ‘FOR SALE--PROPERTY’ of something or other. The old man stared at the ground, crushing a leaf under his shoe.

He twisted away, disappearing into the maze of the shops like a descending helium balloon.