The Sunday Story


It’s that time of the week again, and I’m ill. I think it’s probably the preliminary stages of the flu, so it means I don’t really want to write about whatever strange animal Steve wants me to write about (see last week’s comments). Instead I’m going to write about autumn, and more specifically, going for a walk in autumn. It’s cold, it’s windy, but gosh darnit if it isn’t beautiful.

The stray strands of hair sashayed through the air around her head, masking her eyes from the world for a few moments before blowing them all clear, illuminating the sheer whiteness of her skin and the contrast of her red lips. Her eyes slowly opened and she continued forwards, wrapping her scarf a little tighter, warding off the cold.

She sauntered down the street, a monochrome vision amidst the alight scenery around her. Warmth surrounded her, but she was freezing. Closing her eyes again, she continues onwards, trying not to gaze too long at the burnished, leaves, wanting to avoid longing for a fireplace or merely the heat of a radiator. Wetness hung on her upper lip, making her slip out her pink tongue to wipe it clear, only to regret it immediately, feeling her spittle freezing on her skin. A sigh slipped past her flushed lips.

“It’s not far now, you’ll be warm soon you know.” His voice was strong beside her, but she ignored it, narrowing her eyes as she lent into the wind, trying to fight back against it.

“Really Jane, you should just take your time. I know it’s cold now, but in a few minutes your going to be warm, so what’s the rush? You’re not going to be doing anything particularly incredible when you walk through that door, so you might as well savour the banquet of colour out here. I always did love autumn.” She desperately tried to resist the urge to turn and glance at him, knowing that his mocking but friendly smile would be there, easily slipping back to reveal his teeth. She closed her eyes once more, feeling more wetness slip down her cheeks. She silently cursed the wind.

“Jane, for god’s sakes, slow down. You’re going to have an accident. What if there’s a patch of ice or something?” She whirled to her side, where his voice was, and immediately threw up her arms in exasperation. The street was empty beside her.

She turned back down the street, almost jogging now as she saw the welcoming red door of her house seem to beckon to her. Hugging herself, she continued on, her coat flapping in the playful wind.

“You really should take some time to look at it. It’ll be gone in a few days.” He sounded almost sad, petulant, trying to get her to bend to his will by making her feel guilty. She closed her eyes and walked on, trying to ignore every word that was said.

As she reached her door she turned, looking back down the street with one last glance. The oranges, the reds, the yellows, all seemed to merge into one roaring fire, the entire street ablaze. She turned back and closed the door behind her.

About Phill Cameron

I've graduated, had a look at the world, and spat. Now I'm devoting my time to moving from 3/4 of a games journalist to 9/10ths. I figure I can get away with 9/10ths.
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