| General Fiction posted December 14, 2019 |
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Lost -Flash Fiction
Draughty old house
by zanya
An easterly wind blew flurries of snow across the unkempt lawn as Edward walked briskly towards the front door. He had waited five years for this day.
Though January temperatures had plummeted, he had a pep in his step. Pulling his winter coat around him, he was filled with anticipation.
'How happy dear, departed Mama, Elizabeth, would be,' he murmured to himself. 'Crampton Manor has been safely passed on as the family seat. All the legal wrangling is done.'
Turning the large iron key in the lock of the wooden entrance door, his nostrils were assailed by a musty smell.
'God-damn, damp English winters,' he murmured.
Once inside, he felt a shiver run down his spine. He listened to the crunching sound of his own footsteps on the faded floorboards. Wallpaper was peeling at intervals. Draughts blew through cracks in the window panes.
'Crampton, old girl,' he murmured,' we'll soon restore you to your former glory.'
Edward gazed at the marble figures arrayed in the dining hall. As a small boy, he'd loved to play peek-a-boo with his older sister, Gwendolen, around the statues. Papa, Eduardo, had brought these classical figures back from faraway places like Bombay and Nairobi. A diplomat's life formed an interesting tapestry.
Names of exotic locations formed a backdrop to his childhood days. His wanderlust gestated within the ancient walls of Crampton. Standing amidst the decaying ancestral home now, he felt a sense of regret at not having cut his wandering lifestyle short and returned home.
The study door was slightly ajar. Scents of his father's cigars seemed to fill his nostrils again. 'How powerful are childhood memories!' he wondered.
Rubbing his index finger in the dust on the escritoire, he felt as if he were surrounded by old ghosts.
'Just me now,' he said aloud in the empty morning room.
'Middle-aged, bald and with no prospect of heirs for Crampton.'
He was overwhelmed by a sense of being lost, rudderless.
'Crampton is but bricks and mortar,' he said to himself.
He stood for a long time in front of the full-length hallway mirror. Catching sight of his jowls and wrinkled fifty- year- old face, he murmured, ' a pyrrhic victory?'
Crows cawed loudly high up in the bare branches of the cherry blossom trees.
Clouds scurried across a wintry blue sky.
'Beatrice would have been happy here,' he murmured, 'but first love is a bitch, a mystery to be fathomed...too late now.'
Would being Lord of draughty old Crampton Manor ever fill that lonely space in his heart, assuage his sense of being lost?
Darkness was enveloping Crampton as he slammed the great door and retreated hastily down the avenue.
Lost - Flash Fiction writing prompt entry
An easterly wind blew flurries of snow across the unkempt lawn as Edward walked briskly towards the front door. He had waited five years for this day.
Though January temperatures had plummeted, he had a pep in his step. Pulling his winter coat around him, he was filled with anticipation.
'How happy dear, departed Mama, Elizabeth, would be,' he murmured to himself. 'Crampton Manor has been safely passed on as the family seat. All the legal wrangling is done.'
Turning the large iron key in the lock of the wooden entrance door, his nostrils were assailed by a musty smell.
'God-damn, damp English winters,' he murmured.
Once inside, he felt a shiver run down his spine. He listened to the crunching sound of his own footsteps on the faded floorboards. Wallpaper was peeling at intervals. Draughts blew through cracks in the window panes.
'Crampton, old girl,' he murmured,' we'll soon restore you to your former glory.'
Edward gazed at the marble figures arrayed in the dining hall. As a small boy, he'd loved to play peek-a-boo with his older sister, Gwendolen, around the statues. Papa, Eduardo, had brought these classical figures back from faraway places like Bombay and Nairobi. A diplomat's life formed an interesting tapestry.
Names of exotic locations formed a backdrop to his childhood days. His wanderlust gestated within the ancient walls of Crampton. Standing amidst the decaying ancestral home now, he felt a sense of regret at not having cut his wandering lifestyle short and returned home.
The study door was slightly ajar. Scents of his father's cigars seemed to fill his nostrils again. 'How powerful are childhood memories!' he wondered.
Rubbing his index finger in the dust on the escritoire, he felt as if he were surrounded by old ghosts.
'Just me now,' he said aloud in the empty morning room.
'Middle-aged, bald and with no prospect of heirs for Crampton.'
He was overwhelmed by a sense of being lost, rudderless.
'Crampton is but bricks and mortar,' he said to himself.
He stood for a long time in front of the full-length hallway mirror. Catching sight of his jowls and wrinkled fifty- year- old face, he murmured, ' a pyrrhic victory?'
Crows cawed loudly high up in the bare branches of the cherry blossom trees.
Clouds scurried across a wintry blue sky.
'Beatrice would have been happy here,' he murmured, 'but first love is a bitch, a mystery to be fathomed...too late now.'
Would being Lord of draughty old Crampton Manor ever fill that lonely space in his heart, assuage his sense of being lost?
Darkness was enveloping Crampton as he slammed the great door and retreated hastily down the avenue.
Though January temperatures had plummeted, he had a pep in his step. Pulling his winter coat around him, he was filled with anticipation.
'How happy dear, departed Mama, Elizabeth, would be,' he murmured to himself. 'Crampton Manor has been safely passed on as the family seat. All the legal wrangling is done.'
Turning the large iron key in the lock of the wooden entrance door, his nostrils were assailed by a musty smell.
'God-damn, damp English winters,' he murmured.
Once inside, he felt a shiver run down his spine. He listened to the crunching sound of his own footsteps on the faded floorboards. Wallpaper was peeling at intervals. Draughts blew through cracks in the window panes.
'Crampton, old girl,' he murmured,' we'll soon restore you to your former glory.'
Edward gazed at the marble figures arrayed in the dining hall. As a small boy, he'd loved to play peek-a-boo with his older sister, Gwendolen, around the statues. Papa, Eduardo, had brought these classical figures back from faraway places like Bombay and Nairobi. A diplomat's life formed an interesting tapestry.
Names of exotic locations formed a backdrop to his childhood days. His wanderlust gestated within the ancient walls of Crampton. Standing amidst the decaying ancestral home now, he felt a sense of regret at not having cut his wandering lifestyle short and returned home.
The study door was slightly ajar. Scents of his father's cigars seemed to fill his nostrils again. 'How powerful are childhood memories!' he wondered.
Rubbing his index finger in the dust on the escritoire, he felt as if he were surrounded by old ghosts.
'Just me now,' he said aloud in the empty morning room.
'Middle-aged, bald and with no prospect of heirs for Crampton.'
He was overwhelmed by a sense of being lost, rudderless.
'Crampton is but bricks and mortar,' he said to himself.
He stood for a long time in front of the full-length hallway mirror. Catching sight of his jowls and wrinkled fifty- year- old face, he murmured, ' a pyrrhic victory?'
Crows cawed loudly high up in the bare branches of the cherry blossom trees.
Clouds scurried across a wintry blue sky.
'Beatrice would have been happy here,' he murmured, 'but first love is a bitch, a mystery to be fathomed...too late now.'
Would being Lord of draughty old Crampton Manor ever fill that lonely space in his heart, assuage his sense of being lost?
Darkness was enveloping Crampton as he slammed the great door and retreated hastily down the avenue.
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Writing Prompt Write a flash fiction story under 500 words about being lost |
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