Post by THOMAS MACAROY on Jun 25, 2017 4:20:50 GMT 2
Closing the fridge, milk in hand, he stands by the counter, waiting on the kettle to boil, in the small but functional kitchen of the run down lighthouse, and looks out at yet another dark and windy day. The wind howls around the building, giving it an eary, haunted feeling. He doesn't believe in ghosts, but if he did he thought he'd have a great time in this old place. With all it's noises and shadows and cold spots.
When the jug whistles and pops off, he picks it up and pours the boiling water into his mug, starting the morning as he always does, with a nice strong cup of tea, the first of many throughout the day he's sure.
He tips in some milk and puts it back in the fridge before picking up the toast he'd already made and his tea and moving to the dinner table. It was a plain, functional affair, much like the rest of the place. He was not one for decoration or making things fancy. Long as they were clean and worked as intended he was satisfied. As such, the dinner table was a plain oak, oiled to keep it in good nick. With plain, wooden chairs surrounding it. There were no place-mat's or coasters, because he thought any marks on the table would just end up giving it character. His mother had always been a big fan of 'character' when it came to houses. And car's, people, just about anything really.
He was just about done with breakfast when he heard the rarest sound there was on his isolated little headland. A car engine making it's way slowly up the steep driveway to his door. It was Monday, so that meant it was deliveries were due. He'd had a call from old man Billings earlier in the week though, he'd hired someone new to make the runs for him. Finding he was getting too old to keep it up. So who was about to show up on his doorstep he wasn't sure. He disliked most people instinctively, but he'd be nice as pie to whoever it was that brought him his tea and bread each week. After all, he couldn't survive with out tea!
When the jug whistles and pops off, he picks it up and pours the boiling water into his mug, starting the morning as he always does, with a nice strong cup of tea, the first of many throughout the day he's sure.
He tips in some milk and puts it back in the fridge before picking up the toast he'd already made and his tea and moving to the dinner table. It was a plain, functional affair, much like the rest of the place. He was not one for decoration or making things fancy. Long as they were clean and worked as intended he was satisfied. As such, the dinner table was a plain oak, oiled to keep it in good nick. With plain, wooden chairs surrounding it. There were no place-mat's or coasters, because he thought any marks on the table would just end up giving it character. His mother had always been a big fan of 'character' when it came to houses. And car's, people, just about anything really.
He was just about done with breakfast when he heard the rarest sound there was on his isolated little headland. A car engine making it's way slowly up the steep driveway to his door. It was Monday, so that meant it was deliveries were due. He'd had a call from old man Billings earlier in the week though, he'd hired someone new to make the runs for him. Finding he was getting too old to keep it up. So who was about to show up on his doorstep he wasn't sure. He disliked most people instinctively, but he'd be nice as pie to whoever it was that brought him his tea and bread each week. After all, he couldn't survive with out tea!