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From the Rocking Chair
"     The creaking of his old rocking chair was almost melodic as he sat in it, lurching back and forth on his rear porch overlooking the lake, whose color was more akin to some sort of vile acid than any sort of blue. The ashes from his cigarette hit the floor, flickered, and burned out quickly. His once-radiant blue eyes now appeared dull, as if someone had placed a shade over them. He was deep in thought this morning – just like he was every morning since she began to fade – stroking his messy white beard with his left hand, while continuing to flick the used portions of his cigarette to the ground with his right. Occasionally he would close his eyes to try and make the thoughts of her disappear, but they never did.

     She was a perfect little thing – 5 foot something, and quite thin. She had long blonde hair for a time, then black, and back to blonde again. She always seemed to understand him, know what he was thinking and feeling without him ever saying a word. He was quite busy, though, and so their times together were often short, if only a few minutes long. But those few minutes meant the world to him. They kept him going when times were hard, knowing that he’d be able to hold her again when he just got through the day. She could never stay, though; something would always come up to demand his attention; someone would always require his help.

     As time went on, his visits with her became more and more infrequent. He found himself disgusted by his inability to remain with her. Eventually he convinced himself that it would be better for them both if were to let her go. It was then that she began to fade. He thought at the time that she would be dead within weeks, a month at most, but he was wrong. In fact, she never fully faded – for she was but a dream, a dream whose reality he was never able to grasp, and for the rest of his life she would haunt him."