Blue Roses

August 21, 2008
By Stevey Solis, Arlington, TX

The soft pulse of the antique grandfather clock sounded mutely in the still air. The soft breath of the air conditioning whirred through the house, sending dust flashing through the few rays of sun that fell through the grime covered windows. The ghosts of once white now gray sheets, covered furniture that still breathed with the memories of the lives they had witnessed. The walls whispered with the voices of the past, the screams and laughter. Along the floor, buried beneath years of dust and memories was hidden the only true sign of what had happened in this house, the single dark stain that reminisced of wine and never seemed to dry.
(A bolt turns in the door, the ancient gears creaking with dust and rust. As it clicks back the sound echoes through the rooms, stirring up the ghosts of those forgotten days)
“This house has been sealed up for a while, we tried to sell it ten years ago, but no one really wanted it.”
“Did they ever say why?”
“Only one, she said there was too much pain here.”
“Wonder what she meant by that.” Two gentlemen walked into the front living room, their footfalls softened by the dust-laden carpet and stagnant air. One man stood in a pressed suit, all of the buttons done up tight, his tie impeccable. The other wore wrinkled slacks and a faded blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing a tattoo of a fairy sitting on a blue rose.
“So tell me Mr. Owen, why are you interested in this house.”
“I knew the girl that lived here.” Mr. Owen didn’t look at the real estate agent but he could feel the confused stare as he moved about the room, pulling the sheets from all the furniture, clouds of dust lending their haze to the room making it seem as if from a memory; momentarily brilliant and dull at once.
“A very long time ago, this house was owned by my closest friend and confidant. I betrayed her to the fate that befell her.”
“That is very interesting sir, but that can’t be, the previous owner die sixty years ago, and you don’t look that old.”
“Memories don’t age. Sit I will tell you the story of this house and the woman that once lived here.” Mr. Owen gestured to the couch that still wore the fabric that it had when he had first seen it. The other man sat, his briefcase resting against his leg and his body rigid, on the very edge of the couch. Mr. Owen lounged back against the couch his long legs sprawled out as he closed his eyes, the memories coming like waves and breaking on his conscious mind.

The author's comments:
This piece as inspire by a drawing a friend of mine showed me years ago that I found buried in mounds of old stuff from high school. It was a personal work of hers that she had been very proud of and that she gave to me for my birthday as a way to always remember.

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