She sees rusting blades of grass droop over murky soil like the demised on a battlefield, questioning the likeliness. The intimidating wall of trees stood a hundred yards away, blocking the sun with auburn leaves that clings onto life like a leper holds onto their decrepit limbs. Even though the misty glass windows offers safety from the outside world, the wind that creep through the chasms in the plastering made the world more daunting. The clouds that loom above acted as vengeful zeppelins, dropping tears of napalm on the desolate landscape, though she could not help but notice the faint image of the sun on the horizon as it bobs up and down on the sea, much to the reality of a buoy in an abandoned harbour.
She thinks her eyes saw a group of children playing, encircling a spiny rosebush like they were vultures encroaching a dead corpse, cackling like hyenas, though this was but a long-gone memory, an illusion of fantasy from the life she once had, the bountiful light of youth, though it felt real enough to her, like she could lunge through the window like Tom Cruise and yell at the kids to get off her lawn like she was an authoritative figure or the shepherd of raunchy rams. Reluctantly though, she continues to look through the window to see the picnic parties she used to host on tartan blankets. She had always handmade each and every sandwich, jam and scone for them, scorning anyone who tried to help her in her meticulous methods.
She continues to gaze as the memories relay relentlessly through the day of reminiscing, the forgotten-valued anniversary of the first time she stares through the window, as if time itself had stopped for a fag to let herself bathe in the fountain of nostalgia.
Adam Foley Writing (Soon to be Zozu Writing) 