The Old Man Who Knew

in #fiction6 years ago (edited)

The Old Man who Knew fictionspawn.com.jpg

(Read or listen to the story. Text, voice and illustrations are my own.)

There was a great carpet dwelling above the world. Inside it. Around it. It was conscious, yet not intelligent. Awake, but it did not think. One, a spectre of selves, everywhere and nowhere. No one knew how it worked, not even itself. It was pure observation. It knew, but did not calculate. It felt, but did not care. It was existence. Reality. Nothing more. Nothing less.

The old man sat by the window, looking out on the valley he’d lived in all his life. He knew everything about that valley. Every little rock, every old tree stump. He loved the valley. It was the best place on Earth for him.

He walked out on the porch. Watched the little lake. He knew the lake. He knew the kinds of fish swimming in it. He knew how to catch them. He knew which berries there was in the forest on the other side, which mushrooms he could eat and which he could not. He sat down on his old stool, as he had done so many times before.

He knew a lot. He knew how the flowers bloomed in springtime. How the hills exploded in colours in autumn. He knew how it felt to love and he knew the pain of hate. He knew the arouse of glory, the deep sorrow of loss. He knew a lot.

A cat came by. He knew the cat.

-Hello, little cat, he said cheerfully. The cat came to him, stroking itself to his leg. -You’re a friendly little chap, aren’t you!

The cat purred, enjoying the old man’s company.

He did not know if the cat was a he or a she, but knew it was not important for him to know. The cat was his friend, and friends were good to have.

He was old now. Very old. Life was coming to an end, and he wasn’t sad about it. He’d lived. He’d had a rich life, with sorrows and laughs. Memories. He wouldn’t have been without any of them, even not the painful ones.

Today he was looking out on the field in front of his house. Something dark was hanging over the grass. Over the trees. And he knew. He knew his time had come, and he knew there was nothing to fear. As death came, he closed his eyes and accepted.

A little frog opened its eyes in a swamp in Amazonas.

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Excellent again mate. I love your imagination. I'm going to have a go at some short fiction in the future and at the moment you are my teacher. Cheers :)

Wow, thanks! I'm very much looking forward to that :)

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Beautiful...

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