Tiny Tales

22A

The prominent anchors beneath the man's chilled blue eyes told a story of disturbed sleep and grainy risings. His brow held together a canyon of wrinkles that sat complacent on his square face. Drowning on the horizon, the sun casted an auburn glow over the vintage furniture in Georgie's apartment. His silhouette, cradled by the window's light, crawled along the floor as he inhaled.

Georgie dreaded the fall of day. This was when the ventilation system came on. His patchy hand laid on his cane and sweat stained his collar. His shirt was tucked into his burlap pants and handkerchief, slightly damp, was shy in his pocket. Never had he been driven to complaint. He would sooner go back to lumbering boxes of Follie's Magazines on his crooked back than speak on his wishes, but that smell. That. smell.

It marauded the peppermint accent of his living room's cozy entrails and seeped onto his ashen wooden floors, slithering through the rustic vent adjacent to his pinch pleated lamp. The encumbering draw of stench that filled his room when the vents opened, drove him to madness. He looked to the door. He knew the odor drifted from the room below, but he couldn't move his stubborn legs. The thought of confrontation made him ill.

Georgie sauntered to the adjoining kitchenette where the table stood dark and sturdy. An envelope, weathered and curled at the corners, laid cowering under his cholesterol tablets. The deliverer had neglected to close his mail slot, soaking his letters and medicine in a puddle of murky rain water. He never mentioned it, even when he saw the other tenants' box's closed, secure, and dry. 

"It happens." Georgie would say. " There's no need to shout at thunder for crashing so loud."

The letter crackled under his brittle hands as he peeled the envelope open; it smelled like lavender-soap, Darlene. It read:

To my dearest father,

  The money you sent isn't nearly enough! I'm getting the feeling you don't care for me at all. You send Mariana what ever she asks for and I never get a dime.  It's been exhausting, Jared's been gone most of the time, leaving me to do all of the work. I wonder if that man even knows what a paint brush is. I thought the money you sent was a jest at our kindred relationship, so I bought a new pair of shoes instead. It's been nearly three weeks and I haven't received a response. What am I to do in this empty house? You owe this to your eldest daughter to see to it that she is happy. I am not happy Father. 

Darlene

Georgie sighed, craning his neck to the antique clock above his TV. He thought of the petite Darlene who he adored above all his daughters, even if he would never say so. He shuffled to his desk behind the armchair and made a note to send off more money to Darlene. He wouldn't stand for her unhappiness. 

"Maybe if I cut back on my medicine." He mumbled, flipping through his account book; his finger sliding down each line of numbers and scribbles. 

A BANG echoed throughout the living room. Georgie flinched. He straightened his flannel shirt and walked to the door, now quiet and still.

Through the peephole, he recognized the woman from the ground floor. He held his breath as he opened the door.

"Mrs. Maur." 

"Good afternoon George!" She sung. "I am dreadfully sorry for intruding on your-." she glances into his room. "busy schedule, but I have to inform you about a recent death in the building."