We once used to hang out but now we have no idea what is going on. People who are brave enough to leave their homes lurk around the corners and sit on sidewalks. Wandering, watching the world fade.
An old man sits on a bench in a park. A park that once thrived with children playing football and families enjoy their weekend picnic. But now. Now it's lost and filled with wonders that the bold ones choose to explore. He takes a sip from a flask, dragging the fluid into his system. It's filled with whiskey and pulls the old man's lips into a small smile. He stares at the ground contemplating where the population has gone.
Smiles don't last long when the world can't see your happiness, so the old man is forced to leave the park and head to a side walk. A gate rests,closed, against a wall and lures him away from the mysterious apocalyptic city around him. He pushes a key into its socket. Rotating it around until he hears the sweet click of freedom. He enters through and walks slowly down the stairs to a clearing. A clearing sworn to never speak again. He takes another sip and looks to a boat docked up on the mooring. Thinking about who is inside and what they are having for supper. He walks along to a boat at the far end of the mooring. A lamp flickers its ember-like beams onto the ripping water. With the water distorting the beams it just looks like the sky's reflection.
The old man toys with his bundle of keys; ready to select the right one for his boat. He intakes the last breathe of the air before entering. Inside is a cosy place, large enough for one person, the first thing you see is a small, lit stove cowering in the corner. It is warm throughout and the old man enters the kitchen. He passes a dark grey sofa and maroon chair. Both are snuggled into the sides. Creating a small pathway. There's a table next to the chair's arm. It's old and the paint's peeling away but it continues the vibe of a warm respected home. In the kitchen a lone lantern swings from above. Watching in awe at the food being made and congratulating him on supper. He places a warm bowl of rice onto that small table and pulls up a chair. The chair and table must have been a set, because they were both in a similar condition. The rice is eaten down and the old man climbs into bed. His clothes are still on but the old man doesn't notice. All he thinks about is thinking. A tradition not heard today.
Morning is broken by the sound of laughter and children playing tag up and down the mooring path. Several families are siting stirring coffee outside or setting off to the local park for a picnic. The night's odd. Filled with strange wonders.
