Cracked Pavements, Secrets, and Other Stories

January 11, 2011
The foamy water swirled and churned angrily below. The waves ate up the rocky shore and spat it back out tirelessly again and again. The sky was covered in an ashen veil of clouds, and the fog was soupy and thick, as it hung like drapes across the bay. The sea was menacing and intimidating, the color of freshly spilled ebony ink. Not far from the sea was a village. What would be a good word to describe the village? Useless. Yes, that is the word. A useless village it was. The type of village that was home to a few destitute families, some cats and dogs (that looked more like sticks than domestic animals), and to a couple of orphan children who lurked in the shadows of their own guilt and grief. Of course, as always, the topic always turns to me. Naturally, you will ask, “Who are you?” or “Why are you telling this story?” (one of my favorite questions to answer). And like a good person I will have to answer, and so I shall.

I am a storyteller. I’m sure you’ve heard of them, haven’t you? I spin stories from fine threads and turn them into captivating tapestries of mystery, awe, and wonder. Yet, I am a little different in my ways of storytelling. You see, I don’t spin my webs from my experiences, I create my stories from others. How do I do that? I am a specific type of storyteller. They call my type, The Watchers. Not only do I watch, but I dive into peoples minds and tug out their innermost secrets, and weave them into my captivating stories. In fact, I am in your mind right now, probing through the ocean of your thoughts to see exactly what kind of person you are ( a Watcher must be curious, you see). Anyways, I shall answer the last question, and we will get started. Why, of all stories, am I telling you this one? Being a Watcher, you can imagine how many times I end up finding that half of the stories sound rather alike. So, I enjoy unusual stories. I enjoy telling them even more. Happy? Content? How irksome it can be sometimes having to answer the same questions hundreds of times a day. Now, if you don’t mind, let me spin my story. All you have to do is listen.


The story begins, in that village by the sea. Let’s give that village a name, shall we? Rockferry. Nice name is it not? In that village of Rockferry, there was a house. Ironically, the house was as dismal as its surroundings. It was an old house, and stood tall and proud, almost too tall and proud considering how ugly it was. It was the color of charcoal, and looked as if the person who built the house had done it with his eyes closed. The windows were put haphazardly in random spots, and the door was so small, I wouldn’t be surprised if a squirrel couldn’t fit inside. Out of that house, came a boy. The boy was no older than 15 years of age. What an interesting boy he was. Gaunt, and sallow looking, his hair was untidy and looked as if he had been in a nasty incident involving an electrical socket. His eyes were the colors of olives, and freckles adorned his face. He was a special child. A child who had faced more than he might have let on. Since I like unusual names, I think I should call him Morrow. Morrow Wood.

Morrow stepped out of the door, and was welcomed by a slap of salty sea wind. He began walking on the cracked pavement sidewalk. As I said, Morrow was a strange boy. He walked with his head hung low, not staring at anything but his old, tattered sneakers (and believe me, they were not something that you would want to stare at). Morrow kept walking past the abandoned grocery store, and the deserted playground, where the wind swung the rusty swings back and forth eerily. The salt was stronger in the air now, and the sidewalk came to an end at a worn-out sign that stated “Fisherman’s Bluff”. He walked as far as he could get without falling over the ledge, and finally gazed up at the sea, and a small nostalgic smile appeared on his face. He kneeled down on the tall grass and took a small pouch from his pocket. He took something out. It was a small gold locket, with spirals engraved on it. He held gently, and almost caressed it. Morrow leaned over, and dropped the locket over the ledge, the splashing noise completely drowned out by the ocean’s roar. He reached inside and pulled out another object. A small porcelain trinket, with delicate pink roses painted all over it. He glanced at it for a second, and threw it over the ledge. He reached inside and pulled out one last object. It was a pale blue feather, with specks of black all over. A tear trickled from one of Morrow’s olive eyes, and gracefully fell to the ground. It was the first tear I had seen from him in a long time. Believe me, I didn’t need to go into his mind to figure that out. He closed his eyes, and gently dropped the feather from his hand and I watched it flutter and twirl as it lay itself upon that blanket of dark blue.

As I watched the feather fall, I put my hand absentmindedly to my eyes, to find something wet slipping from underneath my fingers. How strange. I have not cried for years. To this day I wonder why that happened. But I will never forget that story. Morrow Wood was someone special. He was my son.





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