tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-823958022317992790.post4418962113896663629..comments2011-06-07T12:54:12.449-07:00Comments on storyteller49's writings: A small story of minestoryteller49http://www.blogger.com/profile/06205355767539638510noreply@blogger.comBlogger1125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-823958022317992790.post-20593129253947654062011-03-10T23:08:14.378-08:002011-03-10T23:08:14.378-08:00I have never responded with something that was not...I have never responded with something that was not a respose<br /><br />The view out to Lilly Avenue from the fourth floor east side window of the Brookdale apartment building, the only window in Mclarence Woodrow's dingy two room apartment, was incredibly dull and, by extension, ached with despair. Grey tree bark lazily grabbed at sullen grey clouds as fat raindrops, bone chilling, splashed into deep muddy slush puddles for an altogether greyer than grey scene. It was, in fact, so mind numbingly dull, and indeed ached so strongly with despair that a majority of local commuters chose to bypass it on the new route 86 despite its lengthy wraparound. While most avoided this street at all cost, Mr. Woodrow found the view from his fingerprint laden window comforting. Above and below him, although no proof existed, Mclarence remained certain that the neighbors were enjoying a veritable Disney Land of glee. "Two thousand," he said in a distinctly deep and monotonous voice as he listlessly slid from his bed,"two hundred," his speech was labored and grew slower with each utterance,"and seventy three." Mclarence had a strange habit of counting; this number, which increased by exactly one exactly every day, remained entrenched in his mind more than even his own birth day. While shaving he cut himself and could not, for the life of him or another, tell if it was a accident or not. "How dreadful," he said in a slightly reminiscent tone as hot red blood swirled down the musty grey drain. He watched the crimson circus with a distant shameful look, as though lost in thought."But on this matter," he once said,"There is only feeling." Neglecting to tend to his wounds, Mclarence wandered into the kitchen where he fixed himself a bowl of oatmeal, plain, and a mug of warm water while teetering back and fourth on the familiar red stool. Sadly, this just about this sums up Mr. Woodrow's contemporary existence. A few short years ago he amassed a small fortune to last him for the rest of his life, providing that he resided in the dingy fourth floor apartment on Lilly Avenue and avoided such luxuries as cinnamon or chairs, and that's what he did. Mr. Woodrow spent the majority of his days, not quite under pressure, far from ease in the familiar red stool with a wobbly leg, always unsure.Stefan C.https://www.blogger.com/profile/04270125841079593840noreply@blogger.com