The rain was dancing outside. It looked to Gareth as if it were having fun, cascading in sparkling waves, down from an illuminated white sky. Ripples in puddles showed their steps and the patter upon wood their laughter. Tight rays of light struck some and iridescence flashed from behind it’s vibrant body. Gareth could hear the piano-piece of rainfall beyond his window, and it soothed him. He enjoyed looking out across the graves on a rainy day, when the sky is overcast yet lit from behind by a white sun. Rivulets obscured the image and made it impressionist, embellishing his windows with depth. He smiled, he sighed.
Within his mushroom, he waited for the rain to cease. Seated besides the window, where the light sat beside him, he read a book and drank tea. It was on days such as these that tucked into the pantry biscuits, where he lit a fire and put his feet up. His bony toes were exposed, and he wiggled them with a smile.
A small animal lay by his fire, breathing in slow rhythmic fashion, sometimes stopping for a moment before jerking and resuming. It wheezed and grunted, ever so softly, to the music of the rain, and the crackling of the hearth. This was Gareth’s home, his domicile-within-the-mushroom. He had spent many winters besides his porthole window, immersed in his bucolia.
Upon one of his bookshelves, across the room from where he sat, was a picture within a mahogany frame. It was on the highest shelf, scraping the roof, where he kept a stack of old pamphlets from his youth, a small box of fishing gear and a some mystery novels. Dust was thick and the webs where tangled. From where the oasis of distorted rain-lit light danced, from where he rocked gently in his chair, from where his eyes rested upon the pages of his yellowed book, he could see the picture. He could see the colours beneath the winter coat of settled dust. He could see it but he dared not look. Sometimes he felt that he had succeeded, and he couldn’t see it, that he needn’t reach up there and lay it flat any longer. But it was always there, always reminding him. When the rain fell and the gray-blue sky illuminated his rooms with its melancholic glow and the ivory keys played in his ears, that was when he saw nothing but the ache of the picture.
Within his mushroom, he waited for the rain to cease. Seated besides the window, where the light sat beside him, he read a book and drank tea. It was on days such as these that tucked into the pantry biscuits, where he lit a fire and put his feet up. His bony toes were exposed, and he wiggled them with a smile.
A small animal lay by his fire, breathing in slow rhythmic fashion, sometimes stopping for a moment before jerking and resuming. It wheezed and grunted, ever so softly, to the music of the rain, and the crackling of the hearth. This was Gareth’s home, his domicile-within-the-mushroom. He had spent many winters besides his porthole window, immersed in his bucolia.
Upon one of his bookshelves, across the room from where he sat, was a picture within a mahogany frame. It was on the highest shelf, scraping the roof, where he kept a stack of old pamphlets from his youth, a small box of fishing gear and a some mystery novels. Dust was thick and the webs where tangled. From where the oasis of distorted rain-lit light danced, from where he rocked gently in his chair, from where his eyes rested upon the pages of his yellowed book, he could see the picture. He could see the colours beneath the winter coat of settled dust. He could see it but he dared not look. Sometimes he felt that he had succeeded, and he couldn’t see it, that he needn’t reach up there and lay it flat any longer. But it was always there, always reminding him. When the rain fell and the gray-blue sky illuminated his rooms with its melancholic glow and the ivory keys played in his ears, that was when he saw nothing but the ache of the picture.
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