An inhospitable wind prevails as I inhale the scenery, digesting inaudible, invisible childhood games. The laughter and joy of reckless freedom are separated from my world by an intangible curtain.
I walk through sunbeam and cobweb into the heart of the building, where warmth and light are traded for familiarity.
Taking my place at the antique oak writing desk, I survey my domain, a jigsaw of memories, entombed in a rustic old cottage. This palatial wonderland of discovery now seems lifeless and cold. A sleeping giant. Its open door a last vestige of hospitality.
Childhood dreams are challenged by the silence… the loneliness. A timeless wind streams through splintered glass, the crack has withstood the test of time.
A cold, dank odour resides in the cottage. She has aged.
Brittle walls encroach to the rhythm of my breathing. Shedding the dust of laughter and mirth as I exhale.
Dredging the vivid underworld of distant memories, I wallow in a quagmire of forgotten pleasures. Absent friends banished as ghosts in the wind whistle a soulful melody. Loneliness prevails.
The cottage has absorbed my childhood and wants to share its sensations. It challenges me. Threatens and scares me. Life has changed . . . but why it asks?
Its cold air embraces my arms, numbing my fingers. Creativity has surrendered to the chaotic impish meanderings of apprehension.
© Charles Ogg 2005
Charlie lives with his wife and two children in Aberdeen, Scotland. He is the co-owner/director of a small wholesale firm supplying the North Sea oil industry. He’s very active and must be terribly fit; listing his hobbies as pilates, ski-ing, hillwalking, cycling, swimming and – in the past – rock climbing and kayaking. His ambition is to write a novel within the next 3 or 4 years but for the moment he’s happy to “just enjoy” his writing.
