I was bored. One-shot. =_= --- Adapted from 'A Cold Touch' - by Dale Flowers Little Jimmy sat there, on a grassy knoll, overlooking the grave site. Leaning into the old man’s bent legs, the child who was barely four, wrapped his arms around one of the man’s knees, more for warmth than support. The man placed a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder. The old man glanced down at his hand, wondering how it ever got that old; the specks he had once told himself were freckles, but time had convinced him otherwise. Like sun spots drifting over a galaxy of flesh, he accepted the coming of old age. The grave mound’s fresh earth sat in stark contrast to its surroundings: grass in need of mowing, the discarded petals of red roses leaving gaps in the flowers like smiles no longer complete; the wooden gate leading up to it protested against the breeze on complaining aching hinges. And beyond all this was a meandering path guarded by tufts of grass too stubborn to die like their surroundings, unlike the body resting in the gravesite. “Grandpa,” said Jimmy. “Will he be cold in there?” “Not really,” Grandpa answered and squeezed his hand on Jimmy’s shoulder reassuring him. But he knew he lacked conviction, the way Jimmy’s eyes remained fixed to the fresh earth. Jimmy’s vision dug into the soil, quickly at first, and then more slowly, carefully approaching the deceased. Jimmy wanted to look into its eyes, as if this very act would revive the spirit into full blown life. But it lay there in his mind the way it had lain alongside the road, just another hit and run, just another canine, victim to a careless step proving fatal. Jimmy knew he had left the gate open, and the closer his thoughts came to thoughts of the lifeless dog, the quicker his heart beat. It crashed against his chest in an ancient rhythm until his eyes widened with the uncertainty of fear and guilt. He wished he could give his life to Beethoven. Jimmy felt this would be fair; this could let his spirit run through Beethoven’s four legs, a canine happy to be alive, dashing out through the gate, and into traffic. The car never stopped, thought Jimmy. This disturbed him as much as Beethoven’s new home. He tried to imagine why a car had kept going. Didn’t the driver feel the thump against the front bumper? He couldn’t imagine the driver or anyone caring so little as not to stop. Beethoven was big, strong; too big to leave so suddenly. “Grandpa, the car never stopped.” “I know,” his grandfather tried to think of some way to explain this: a man in a hurry to get home, to dinner, to call it a day, not truths a four-year old would grasp. There had to be something better than truth, but not quite a lie. “He wasn’t sleeping,” asked Jimmy. “No, Beethoven wasn’t sleeping.” “I checked,” he had checked with his small pale hand that gently touched the dog’s still warm head, a quiet head that never woke, a head with closed eyes that never opened. He only touched it once; a fear over came him, mysterious and unexplainable, something too far away to touch, too close to escape. He ran to get his grandfather. He never said a word, didn’t have to. The look in Jimmy’s eyes told his grandfather he needed to slip on his thongs, not to worry about their fit, and follow Jimmy to the place of the disaster. “It was time for Beethoven to leave.” “I left the gate open.” “Wouldn’t have made any difference; it was time for Beethoven to leave.” The breeze moved, a bit more hurriedly, as if it wanted to get past these two. It had places to go, other clumps of grass and bushes to comb before spending itself over whatever laid before it. And no matter how quickly it rode out its life, it returned, the next evening, and the next . . . and the next. It did this with such regularity, Jimmy barely noticed the freckles on his grandpa's hand had grown coarser and were no longer reminiscent of freckles. Grandpa sat there wishing he too had something or someone to lean into, more for warmth than support. Pulling on his jacket, he zipped it up and turned up the collar. Tucking his hands into his pocket, he removed the aging reminders from his sight but not his mind, and this brought a smile. The breeze swept over his lips dissolving them into two thin stoic lines. His time would come too.
I copied it from my class blog! I was bored and wanted to post a story lol. I'm planning on writing another one-shot, but... I have plenty of titles but no ideas