Sarah Scougall
Bio
A fiction writer and book babbler.
Stories (2/0)
INSA
In Berlin, an old man sits in a rocking chair. The warped wood floor creaks under the swaying rockers in the otherwise silent house. His wife of fifty years sleeps soundly in the next room. The man runs his hands through his thin, graying hair, reminiscing on the lives he will never know. All seven children, lost somewhere in the universe. Some were blind, a few deaf, and two were joined at the hip. No one else he knew had been so unlucky. Most couples had at least one that was good enough. He shakes his head, berating himself. What's done is done, and there’s no use wasting thought on it now. The old man pushes up with wobbly arms onto equally shaky legs, walks through the door to his bedroom, and climbs into bed. His wife’s face is still wet. She must not have been sleeping for very long. He kisses away her tears and closes his eyes for the day, no different than any night before.
By Sarah Scougall6 years ago in Futurism