It was seventeen seventy, five years before the war that would leave the people of the Colonies in great satisfaction and jollity. Yet leave the people of England in great despair and anguish. One would not expect for someone with a great will, would fall so very low to retrieve his dreams. One would not expect someone with a great power, to fall on his knees and beg for mercy. Not a soul would have thought a man with a spirit as clean and pure as a unblemished child, would kill.
The skies were blue, not a cloud to protect the souls on the crust of the Earth. Fields as far as the eye can see, were bright green, tinted with color from the variety of plants that grew from the soil. Children would pick the different flowers, some boys would shyly hand a Barberton, or even a Canterbury Bell to a young girl. White sheets fluttered in the soft breeze, tickling the hiding children from the others. Gay men and women would laugh and dance in the warm weather. It was a perfect day. Everything was cheerful, no one sad. No soul was dreading anything. But, there was a man, who didn't leave his house that day. The oak planked house was quiet, the windows slightly opened to let the cool breeze inside. The house wasn't large, no. It was quite small, the oak wooded walls were ever so slightly rain damaged, along with the spruce wood planks on the roof. The little home rested on a knoll. The old door was not opened by anyone. It was a special week for the man inside, and everyone knew.
The town he lived in wasn't big, Accomack didn't have many people resting in this certain area. It was secluded. The children flanked the little house, wanting for the man inside to come out to play. No response was made. They believed he was reposing, and simultaneously started to leave.
The man, was Alfred F. Jones, a well known man in the state of Virginia. Anywhere he stepped foot, life was given to the surrounding area. He was vivacious, and was always shrewd. His acute personality was very cryptic to some, but to most, he was the kindest soul of them all. Never has someone said a word to him and his lips haven't curled into a grin. Never has someone said a word to him, and he would say something ignominious. Alfred was loved by everyone he meets, but there is one person who loves him most. Alfred hasn't seem this man in almost five years, but his voice wasn't about to be forgotten. As he begged his lover to write to him almost every day.
It was a week before his lovers birthday, and Alfred has been in his home writing until his hands were cramping. His ink was running low due to his many tries to create the most genuine, bona fide letter he has ever dreamed of. "It is my lover, and the people you love deserve the best you can give! Never should you give something to your lover that you don't truly believe is suit for them! They deserve the best, so give it to em!" Alfred would always say to the men who asked him for advice for their ladies. Alfred rubbed his throbbing temples and closed his blue eyes. Trying to relive the time he was with his lover. He warmth of the tiny, feminine hands in his own. Secretly meeting after work. When they would hold each other under the covers on cold, cold days. He sighed as he remembered the one time they were almost caught. They couldn't meet in public.
For being a homosexual, was a sin.
The laughter rang in the blonds ears, causing him to slightly smile as he looked up, and out his window. Watching the soft, white sheets used as curtains gently caressed the wood walls. His light blue gaze made its way over to a picture resting on the old wall. The man slowly rose off of the redwood chair with a loud creak noise. He stepped loudly over to the picture, his soft smile returning to his lips in a more benevolent. His hand gently rubbed against the glass. The picture was on him and his lover, Arthur Kirkland.
The man who was still in England, who's birthday was in a week.
Alfred gently touched the pail, pouting mans face. Oh how he wished so dearly that he could see those bright, shamrock coloured eyes. How he longed to touch his soft, blond hair once again. The old metal frame was rusting, and the glass was cracked in the corner, next to Alfred's face, but he was thankful that Arthur's body went untouched by time. Alfred pushed up his small frame glasses and turned around, looking back into his small home.
The room he stood in was smaller then the other rooms, but that was fine due to the fact that it was his work room. The bookcase holding all of the old books of poems, and literature, was slanting, as was his desk. Another gentle breeze danced its way into the room, the smells of freshly baked bread and nature filled his nose. He sat back down in his chair, realizing that he was wasting time that he could use for Arthur. Every year Alfred would make sure that every letter was better then the last, and every year he would imagine Arthur reading the letter, and smiling.
His smile was Alfred's sun. Nothing could surpass Arthur's eyes shutting, his pail cheeks turning a light pink, as his mouth curves into a grin oh so rarely. Even more brilliant when he laughed. Alfred hated himself, for slowly forgetting the sound of Arthur's laugh. It's been so long. Too long. He grabbed the goose feather quill and placed it over the scribbled on paper. The blank ink was waiting to be used, but Alfred struggled. He couldn't figure out what to write this year. He chuckled halfheartedly as he remembered what he had written the year before.
It was seventeen seventy, five years before the war.