A/N: Sorry to all those who had to suffer the horrible insanity that was
this chapter before. Fanfiction.net doesn't read the paragraphs on .doc
documents as well, and I had them in the document copy, but somehow the
paragraph spaces didn't get put in when I posted it. I have hopefully
righted the error of the computer's ways, and hopefully now you can read it
with the paragraph spaces where I intended them to be.
And, as usual, things between *'s are supposed to be in italics
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A slightly off-key whistled version of "the Yellow Rose of Texas" went drifting lazily down the street one afternoon.
This was most unusual not because of the location it was being whistled in- a rural town in Wales-but whom it was being whistled by, the ragged old- young man who lived at 19 Rosewood Lane. He was rarely ever seen outside of his house, and it was even rarer still to hear a sound come from his part of the block at all.
However, he did take his morning cups of tea outside; he would sit on the porch of his cottage and watch the sun rise. As soon as the ceremony of light ended, he usually returned to the depths of his house. The old brick walls were dark and cracked, overrun by ivy that had been welcomed in its youth, but was now an undesired child who would not leave home-loved, but slightly in the way. The lot's grass was long and unkempt, much like the man's russet hair. The old flower boxes under the windows were full of weeds and still more ivy. The beds in the yard were littered with bits of brick and dandelions in addition to the countless other blossoming weeds and thorny plants. A few ferns grew in the back of his yard on the border of the forest surrounding the village, but they didn't seem wellkept mainly because they weren't. There was an iron fence surrounding his yard that ran straight back into the forest. No one knows where it ends.
But today he was standing outside with a bucket full of gardening tools in one hand and a pair of well-worn gloves in the other, whistling merrily as he prepared himself for the task ahead.
The jeans he was wearing had faded to a cool grey after years of un- merciful use. They were slightly too big and sagged at the waist. The knees and seat were worn so well that they were white, and the cuffs were frayed in the back where they had suffered years of stepping on the too- long jeans. It seemed as though he had grown into and then back out of them-which he had done. A few of the larger holes on the legs were patched with slightly darker squares of denim and sewn clumsily. The smaller ones had simply been wrestled shut with thick thread.
He also wore a faded, once black tee shirt with a bleach stain on the left sleeve and an old grass stain on the back from his days at school. It, too, had been slowly worn into a grey, too-big covering.
These clothes that had once flattered him so well now only made him look even more tired and ill. They accentuated how thin he had become since his teenage years-which hadn't been so long ago.
The grayness of his clothes made the growing number of unnatural, deep- silver threads of his hair stand out more against the fading reddish- chestnut. His hair was ruffled with the lack of care and looked as though it had not been brushed or cut in months-which it hadn't been. The black shirt drew attention to his thin, now bony face and the darkening half moons growing under his eyes. But all of that grey made his eyes pop at you, though they were now just another shade of grey, too.
In the old days-by which he meant the days when he was not older than nature had meant-they had been bright and expressive. When he was very small they had been a clear blue. During the years he had spent so much of his time crying they had also contained shining brownish-gold centers. When he went off to school, the rings remained, but the blue had taken on a greenish quality, like the forest. Occasionally they had turned a wolf- like amber when he was too upset for word or though or feeling.
They had looked a marvelous sea-green-gold with his young, fit body, wear- worn mind and tattered soul. He had been entirely tattered for two years now, but he was finally beginning to unravel around the edges, and along with the rest of him his eyes were settling into graying blue-brown windows to his frayed mind. That was why he had come to the garden.
Unnoticed by any who were not looking for it, there was a thin, foot-long polished stick made of rich willow, battered with use and sporting a well worn handle, tucked under the waistband of his jeans, held up by a breaking belt and concealed by his tee shirt flapping in the soft breeze.
The sun beat down on him harder and he knelt down in the middle of the side flowerbed, his back to the street.
He suddenly stopped whistling and began to sing in a slightly hoarse voice that sounded as well-worn as everything else about him.
* "This is my letter to the world, that never wrote to me,--the simple news that Nature told, with tender majesty..." *
And, as usual, things between *'s are supposed to be in italics
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A slightly off-key whistled version of "the Yellow Rose of Texas" went drifting lazily down the street one afternoon.
This was most unusual not because of the location it was being whistled in- a rural town in Wales-but whom it was being whistled by, the ragged old- young man who lived at 19 Rosewood Lane. He was rarely ever seen outside of his house, and it was even rarer still to hear a sound come from his part of the block at all.
However, he did take his morning cups of tea outside; he would sit on the porch of his cottage and watch the sun rise. As soon as the ceremony of light ended, he usually returned to the depths of his house. The old brick walls were dark and cracked, overrun by ivy that had been welcomed in its youth, but was now an undesired child who would not leave home-loved, but slightly in the way. The lot's grass was long and unkempt, much like the man's russet hair. The old flower boxes under the windows were full of weeds and still more ivy. The beds in the yard were littered with bits of brick and dandelions in addition to the countless other blossoming weeds and thorny plants. A few ferns grew in the back of his yard on the border of the forest surrounding the village, but they didn't seem wellkept mainly because they weren't. There was an iron fence surrounding his yard that ran straight back into the forest. No one knows where it ends.
But today he was standing outside with a bucket full of gardening tools in one hand and a pair of well-worn gloves in the other, whistling merrily as he prepared himself for the task ahead.
The jeans he was wearing had faded to a cool grey after years of un- merciful use. They were slightly too big and sagged at the waist. The knees and seat were worn so well that they were white, and the cuffs were frayed in the back where they had suffered years of stepping on the too- long jeans. It seemed as though he had grown into and then back out of them-which he had done. A few of the larger holes on the legs were patched with slightly darker squares of denim and sewn clumsily. The smaller ones had simply been wrestled shut with thick thread.
He also wore a faded, once black tee shirt with a bleach stain on the left sleeve and an old grass stain on the back from his days at school. It, too, had been slowly worn into a grey, too-big covering.
These clothes that had once flattered him so well now only made him look even more tired and ill. They accentuated how thin he had become since his teenage years-which hadn't been so long ago.
The grayness of his clothes made the growing number of unnatural, deep- silver threads of his hair stand out more against the fading reddish- chestnut. His hair was ruffled with the lack of care and looked as though it had not been brushed or cut in months-which it hadn't been. The black shirt drew attention to his thin, now bony face and the darkening half moons growing under his eyes. But all of that grey made his eyes pop at you, though they were now just another shade of grey, too.
In the old days-by which he meant the days when he was not older than nature had meant-they had been bright and expressive. When he was very small they had been a clear blue. During the years he had spent so much of his time crying they had also contained shining brownish-gold centers. When he went off to school, the rings remained, but the blue had taken on a greenish quality, like the forest. Occasionally they had turned a wolf- like amber when he was too upset for word or though or feeling.
They had looked a marvelous sea-green-gold with his young, fit body, wear- worn mind and tattered soul. He had been entirely tattered for two years now, but he was finally beginning to unravel around the edges, and along with the rest of him his eyes were settling into graying blue-brown windows to his frayed mind. That was why he had come to the garden.
Unnoticed by any who were not looking for it, there was a thin, foot-long polished stick made of rich willow, battered with use and sporting a well worn handle, tucked under the waistband of his jeans, held up by a breaking belt and concealed by his tee shirt flapping in the soft breeze.
The sun beat down on him harder and he knelt down in the middle of the side flowerbed, his back to the street.
He suddenly stopped whistling and began to sing in a slightly hoarse voice that sounded as well-worn as everything else about him.
* "This is my letter to the world, that never wrote to me,--the simple news that Nature told, with tender majesty..." *