The Sun gleams upon the neatly kept stone white houses as he walks down the street. People do not wave, yet he does. Time has passed since his last time with his love, and it is time to make things right. Everybody here has come to make things right, but he has come to make things right in a different way. Nobody smiles, yet the shadows both in his life now and the memories of once was do. Mockingly. It is the end of the passion play, time to take off the mask and take a seat in the dead aisles. Roses are planted in front of the houses. Beautiful roses. Oh, how beautiful! Nothing could touch her beauty, though. That is why he must make things right. No doubts, no hesitations now. His pa had once held this gold gift in his hands, and the gift called to be given. Soon, the world would feel the joy it gave and all would celebrate with him. It was the final gift, and the most bitter sweet he would ever give. For some reason the man felt like he was in a dream. Strings not pulled by a puppeteer, but by a jester. The houses were wide on this street, and he noted it. This was the final street, both on his journey and in life. All wound up here, and, like the old sayings go, here you needed no last name. They carved it on your house, but age pelted it away and this was the court of age. Fate was indeed mocking him. Instead of rain to symbolize a new beginning and to wash away his sin with his one and only love, the Sun shined brightly in clear defiance to what little emotion he still had. She would refill his depleted emotional tanks, though. She always had. Approaching the place she inhabited, he crouched on his knees as he somehow felt her stir as if to greet him for one last time. For one final embrace. Taking out his gift, he uses it on himself as he had used it on her. When they were young, and like the roses, still blooming in life’s seemingly warm embrace. How cold the under chills of age are, though. How cold. The audience roared its approval as the sound of his giving were echoed throughout the street. A smile crossed his face, a rare sight in this place. Blood as red as the fresh roses he had laid at her house was splattered across her virgin white house, and he fell to meet the door. The gift glinted its golden love to the sky, as if to laugh with the audience. He embraced her and she embraced him. Death embraced them both. Forever. The street was a cemetery, the gift death. A golden gun glittered as the Sun prepared to rain out its final tears, and the smoke from the gun’s mouth formed a face. A laughing face. Only for a moment, though. A great amount of smoke came out of the gift, and it was gone before the audience could claim it-or investigate. It had business, and it was always booming.
Very refreshing and descriptive writing, though partially confusing until the explanation in the final paragraph. It was clever though, and I liked the laughing face in the smoke from the gun. Nice work.
