So…..while I was in MI, I started a short story.
And here it is. A little bit of it. Then the other day I realized he (the main character) didn’t have a name. Whoops. And that I mysteriously capitalized “Uncle” without a name after it.
But without further ado, read.
I had fallen asleep on the parlor couch. Now it was dawn. And the windows were clouded with rain. Birds sung. A crow cawed. It had rained through the night.
Someone had left the window open and nearly froze me to death. But now that I was awake, I sat up and wrapped the blanket around me, wishing I had closed the window earlier. I rubbed my eyes and got to see my surrounding for the first time. The night before I was too tired to notice. It had taken me all evening to reach my Uncle’s house. The roads were bad and I hadn’t driven in a car for months. Maybe a year. I had been working on a new moon settlement for that time.
I stood up and cracked my neck. I didn’t except to get any contact from the settlement out here on the moor. I walked across floor, covered with faded Turkish rugs. I threw aside the curtains from the windows. A spray of mist hit me.
“Ugh,” I sighed. Though I didn’t mind that much. “Seems like his yard needs some trimming.”
The window opened up to a seemingly untouched garden where the woods were threatening to over grow it. I spotted the crow.
“What are you complaining about?” I said. The crow turned his head. But he cawed again. I yawned and walked back across the room. I picked up my jacket and went out into the hall.
It was an old fashioned house, and if I didn’t know better I would think I was back in the nineteenth century. The hallways were cold, dark. The broiler sounded like a dying animal. I walked downstairs to the kitchen. I needed a cup of coffee. Not the fake powder they sent up to us on the new settlement.
I went down to the kitchen. I could hear Rosalind banging pots around. The old kitchen maid who had been there since, well, forever. The rest of the house was quiet. She must have been the only one awake. Other than me and the crow, that is.
I opened the big wood door. Light flooded in. Steam too. I smelled biscuits and fresh coffee.
“Morning, Rosalind,” I said. I slung my jacket on a chair and walked round the table where she was kneading some bread. I was greeted by a cloud of flour.
“I have some biscuits done but down burn your finger, they’re blazing hot,” she said. She hardly gave me a glance. Grey hair, bright blue eyes, wicked jaws if she wanted, and the strongest frame I’ve ever known for a woman that age.
“Is the coffee done?” I asked. I snatched a biscuit off the stove and walked over to the percolator. I could hear the birds singing outside. The window was cracked open, letting in the mist.
“Aye, and there’s creamer in the fridge,” she answered. I heard her plop the dough down on the table. That was old too. The wood was almost grey now. It seemed the two of them had aged together.
“Oh I’ll just take it black.” I took out a mug.
“You used to take it with sugar and cream. The moon must have hardened your taste buds,” she looked up now, giving me one of her crinkled smiles.
“We don’t get sugar on the moon,” I answered. I poured some coffee. Rich, steaming black.
“All those petitions, bills, and grants they get through by they can’t get through a simple pound of white sugar,” she said. Back to the kneading. I chuckled.
“Is Uncle up yet?” I asked. I finished the biscuit off and started on the coffee.
“Nah. Not for an hour at least,” she answered. “He’ll come down for breakfast at nine.”
“Well, then, I think I’ll walk the grounds a little bit,” I said.
“Don’t get too wet young man,” she warned as I walked towards the door and picked up my jacket. “You may be twenty but you can still catch a cold. It’s not a skill you lose with years.”
“Twenty seven,” I corrected, opening the door.
“Ach. It’s all the same.”