Draft

The Appeal
By: S. Roff

Please, a chair...so I may sit.

The older man across the table motioned to the wooden chair in front of him. He pulled the chair out and sat down. His right shoelace came undone.

I, I...I hoped—

Forget it.

The clock grew louder. The room was dark except for the dimly lit window pane. A pale night, interrupted by the occasional car, nothing. Silence.

I wanted to speak with you,

A long pause.

about tomorrow. I don’t think it’s safe.

The man's cold lips slipped into a frown.

—I mean, I think the suppliers are safe. Everything’s clean. This isn’t like ‘97. That definitely won’t happen again.

The man across the table rolled up his sleeve to read his silver Rolex. He pulled his sleeve back and ran his old fingers across his cashmere sweater, smoothening out the ruffles.

Well...

I think we shouldn’t show.
I have a bad feeling about this one.

At that instant the world stopped. Light shot into the room, shadows danced across the walls; the hollow yellow ran swift shades across his face. They revealed a pallid complexion, stubble covered his chin, his long graying hair pushed back in gentle waves behind his white, translucent, ghastly ears. He looked to be in his late fifties; his eyes were tired, his gaze impassive.
...(a muffled cough)
The light which had shone like brilliant rays exposing some—some darkness, was gone.
It left the room. It had come and gone, but now it was gone. Only darkness. Darkness and the faint moonshine of the night.

I’m sorry, I, I sh—I wasn’t, what was I thinking?

I’m sorry for interrupting you.

The face across the table slowly began to nod. His eyes were closed, lips shut, his heavy chin cradled in his hand.
He got up from the small wooden table, pushed in his chair and grabbed his coat. He turned and left.

Distant footsteps...and then the silence returned.

It crept back into the room, slowly filling every corner and every wall with its empty presence.

The younger man pulled out a worn, tattered photograph, it was folded in half. He opened it and stared at the boy in the picture for some time. The boy was young, five maybe six, dressed in an oversized blue plaid-button down. His hair, a bowl of black curls and his smile...overflowed with the happiness of being a child. The wooden chair creaked and its distant cry reverberated throughout the hall. Holding the torn photo he folded it in the palm of his weary hands.

His head fell down and he began to cry.

Quiet sobs.

The distant echoes of life.

Each tear gently caressing his face, falling down to the wooden table. The warm beads rolling, gently rolling off his cold skin and on the wood. He could hear the soft fall of the watery beads.
He glanced at his wrist, one AM. Wiping his face with his shirt, the man pushed back his chair, rose and left. The old piece of wood sat there, pulled out from the small table.


--Please comment on style and any and all areas that you think need improvement. Thank you.
Stephen Roff