White Walk

Misty air and dollops of snow painted an otherwise familiar park known to an old man and an old woman, a painter of roofs and a painter on easels, world weary walkers. It did not rightly matter whatever the weather decided when their decision was always final: they will walk in this park, and come rain and hail and other mailman obstacles, they will always walk in this park. It surprised them, however, to spot others on the trail in these conditions. They glanced at each other sharing such surprise, and they did not smile nor frown but, instead, continued walking.

"I think I've seen that one before," the old woman said.

"We've walked this very track every day since youth and you're surprised to remember a face?" asked the old man.

"Yes, well, rarely do they ever leave impressions like this one."

"What sort of impressions do you speak of?"

They both observed the supposed familiar figure dressed in glaring yellows and reds.

"Is it the glaring yellows and reds, then?" asked the old man.

They both observed the figure stretch their arms out upward, both then breaking towards opposite directions, then rejoining towards the earth.

"Or is it the obnoxiously flashy routine?"

They both observed the figure raise and stomp their feet hurriedly before they then took off into the snow capped woods.

"Or is it the--"

"I don't know," the old woman interjected. "There is something interesting in them, is all."

"Is there?"

After thinking for a moment, the old man then added:

"Will you paint him later?"

They were drawing close to the snow capped trees themselves now.

"It's possible. Now that you mention it, I might. It's been awhile since I've had an interesting muse."

The old man balked.

"Has it really been 'awhile'?"

"How do you mean? I suppose so. You see the same town every day with little variation and you'll hardly find beauty in it after some point," she replied.

At this, the old man, looked towards his similarly aged companion while she continued to look off into the trees. A silence hung among the two until the old woman continued:

"It's alright, you know. I don't fully expect you to understand considering your own subject material. I am sure a roof is... just a roof."

He wasn't sure how to respond, but he did not take his eyes off her. The old man considered a possibility he hadn't touched on in many years: regret. No, he did not regret that he walked with this woman nor did he regret the life spent beside her, but he began to think about a great many things he could have done that he did not, a great many things he should have done that he did not. Without realizing it, his steps stopped. The old woman walked a bit further before noticing, then turning towards his direction.

"What is it?" she asked.

"I am thinking..." he began, before rotating his jaw around as he observed what one could make of the park through its mist. "I am thinking... you continue this way. And I will go back, and I'll walk that way."

"... What on earth has gotten into you?"

"It loops back. Will you humor me?"

"Well... I suppose. You'll be alright, then?"

"I think so. See you soon."

"Yes, see you... soon."

Leaving her rather mystified, the old man turned his heel and began walking back the way they came, they way they started--always, come rain and hail and every other possible mailman obstacle. And he felt, at first, an unfamiliar burst of energy, a renewed sense of newness, in fact. This very park having been walked a thousand times had never been tread this way once? Why hadn't he? Why hadn't they? His mind, then, turned to the old woman, and he traded an amount of energy for a bit of sudden loneliness--he already missed her by his side, and the old man's pace suddenly felt as unfamiliar as this direction. It manifested into a bit of unease, and this bit manifested into quite a bit of unease, and his pace began to increase just a bit more indeed.

Upon reaching a familiar bench in what had become an unfamiliar sea of white, he dusted off what he could and sat down, winded. The old man took in the trees and trail and decided this to be most certainly a halfway point, and so he decided he would rest for a moment and wait for the old woman to finish her half, and then they could resume, as always. And he did wait, and the snow did gently fall. And he waited a very long time.

---

how ridiculous it is that a website dedicated to inspiring fiction would hold up such asinine requirements as a word limit. i understand the need to cap these short stories given no judge rightly deserved to be subjected to a ten thousand word essay on Naruto erotica hastily disguised as a short story, but a minimum--one thousand words no less--is unbelievably stupid. again, there is an understanding: i'm sure no judge wants to sift through dozens of one sentence short stories submitted by toddlers with ipads who had somehow found themselves knee deep into the reedsy writing contests, but surely five hundred words or even three hundred would be more suitable.

the fact of the matter is: my short story is done. there is zero need to stretch out my narrative artificially for any reason whatsoever, and i will not do so arbitrarily to make it to some, again, arbitrary requirement. that is why i pen this flowery, long winded rant, and i don't rightly care if it disqualifies my entry, either. i have gained enough satisfaction from the simple act of having written it, and i gain a little more from complaining about asinine rules and asinine requirements.

perhaps an entry like this may inspire some reassessments of the contests' parameters, but perhaps this may also just be wishful thinking. in any case--thanks for reading!