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The Shadow On The Wall

The shadow was still on the wall after the sun went away. It was a parting gift to the old man with no spoons.

He sat, precariously balanced on the stool, twisting the words of his coffee... as the shadow said nothing.

He sculpted that coffee into arguable shapes, letting them drift in and out of his fingers... as the shadow said nothing.

Those small peculiar moments, brown and liquid, invented themselves before him while his cup drifted out of view... as the shadow said nothing.

That coffee with no spoon shaped itself into several pieces as the old man sat, letting go, moving his fingers away, brushing them through his tangled hair... as the shadow said nothing.

With amazed belief he stared at the shadow on the wall, which was the parting gift from the sun that went away. It was the shadow of a spoon.

With just the slightest movement, the old man picked up a distant coffee cup and gave it to the shadow.

The sun appeared for an hour and sang a final song. It consumed the coffee, the cup, the shadow and the old man before leaving just after breakfast... as the shadow said one thing - 'The lords of the minor arrangements are suffering from phonetic drift'.

Story by:

David Maverick

submitted at 6:20pm

6 April 2012

David Maverick's web:

www.pixelflake.co.uk