Daft Punk
05-24-2008, 05:22 AM
I posted this awhile back but never really got any comments on it. Gonna see if I get more crits this time around. Also, it won't let me tab. I don't know why.
Color
The man tried to steady his shaking hands as he stared up at the flickering halogen lights dotting the ceiling, their eerie white glow shining over the gray graffiti that blanketed the wall behind him. He closed his eyes and tried to calm his breathing, coming out in short rasps of air. He placed a slick shaky hand on the gray wall next to one of the many plastic signs cautioning for safe behaviors to prevent the spread of the pandemic. A train roared by filling the subway with noise. The man looked at the papers again, begging for them to be wrong, waiting for a call that would alleviate his fears. A call that would never come. He had known, all along he had known, but he hadn’t realized it until he had gotten the papers, handed to him by an ascetic looking young doctor. The people there, seeing him, gave him a wide berth, holding handkerchiefs over their mouths.
The man stepped out of the subway, deciding to walk back to his apartment. He passed through the almost empty city streets, gray and blank against the light blue sky. He had no idea what possessed him to do so, but he turned away from his apartment building, and walked to the place he had been with her last. He remembered her vividly. She was bright, full of life. Full of color and vitality. He passed through the playground, rusted and gray, where the children played once. He forgot, sometimes, what a child looked like. The man continued his walk through empty streets. He knew where he was going, but he didn’t know why. Bits of crumbled posters, advertising the war, and broken road signs, twisted like gnarled metal mangroves lined the sidewalks. The war was long over, but its true effects were just now coming to a close. He stared at the rusted vehicles, sitting silently, like gray mounds of clay, as if they had always been there. They had moved once, the man recalled, he had driven one, so long ago.
The man stood, staring at the dilapidated wooden structure, it’s paint peeling off the shingled sides. He opened the rusty mesh gate and stepped into the yard. He remembered the way she smelled, the way her skin felt. He walked into the garden, once so carefully tended by her, the flowers wilted, petals dead on the ground. He remembered his last days with her, the coughing, the blood. He remembered the color seeping from her face, her eyes growing dark. He coughed suddenly, and took his handkerchief from his shirt pocket to cover his mouth. He pulled it away, speckled with blood. The man sat down beneath the old oak, the thick trunk meandering its way up into the gray branches that blocked out the sky, and remembered her colors.
They found the man a few days later, sitting beneath the oak tree above his family, just another generic casualty of the war, a bright patch of red roses growing around his colorless form.
Color
The man tried to steady his shaking hands as he stared up at the flickering halogen lights dotting the ceiling, their eerie white glow shining over the gray graffiti that blanketed the wall behind him. He closed his eyes and tried to calm his breathing, coming out in short rasps of air. He placed a slick shaky hand on the gray wall next to one of the many plastic signs cautioning for safe behaviors to prevent the spread of the pandemic. A train roared by filling the subway with noise. The man looked at the papers again, begging for them to be wrong, waiting for a call that would alleviate his fears. A call that would never come. He had known, all along he had known, but he hadn’t realized it until he had gotten the papers, handed to him by an ascetic looking young doctor. The people there, seeing him, gave him a wide berth, holding handkerchiefs over their mouths.
The man stepped out of the subway, deciding to walk back to his apartment. He passed through the almost empty city streets, gray and blank against the light blue sky. He had no idea what possessed him to do so, but he turned away from his apartment building, and walked to the place he had been with her last. He remembered her vividly. She was bright, full of life. Full of color and vitality. He passed through the playground, rusted and gray, where the children played once. He forgot, sometimes, what a child looked like. The man continued his walk through empty streets. He knew where he was going, but he didn’t know why. Bits of crumbled posters, advertising the war, and broken road signs, twisted like gnarled metal mangroves lined the sidewalks. The war was long over, but its true effects were just now coming to a close. He stared at the rusted vehicles, sitting silently, like gray mounds of clay, as if they had always been there. They had moved once, the man recalled, he had driven one, so long ago.
The man stood, staring at the dilapidated wooden structure, it’s paint peeling off the shingled sides. He opened the rusty mesh gate and stepped into the yard. He remembered the way she smelled, the way her skin felt. He walked into the garden, once so carefully tended by her, the flowers wilted, petals dead on the ground. He remembered his last days with her, the coughing, the blood. He remembered the color seeping from her face, her eyes growing dark. He coughed suddenly, and took his handkerchief from his shirt pocket to cover his mouth. He pulled it away, speckled with blood. The man sat down beneath the old oak, the thick trunk meandering its way up into the gray branches that blocked out the sky, and remembered her colors.
They found the man a few days later, sitting beneath the oak tree above his family, just another generic casualty of the war, a bright patch of red roses growing around his colorless form.