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by fatima
Rated: 13+ · Appendix · Spiritual · #812971
simplicity vs. luxury
The name did justice to the element of the building. Its highest edge did scrape the sky,
causing a scattering cloud to dissipate. Going below were the molten rock demoted to a plain pathway for humans to use ferocious mixture of metals with the potential to kill, but simply there so they didn’t have to walk. That is why grandpa moved out to the country. a different scheme. He moved farther than the country sprouting telephone lines, with hay like grass quenching the waters it deserves. His house was in the woods. Sparse trees, same sun smirking below, with the clouds coming out to play at midday. His home was made from wood. Only one room. And it carried a red woven carpet, etched with turquoise, black, and white threads of Burundi. IT was clear. All you could see was the clarity of the large room, with pots hanging from the side walls. IT was all he wanted. The two doors were always open throughout the day, channeling breezes. It was different.
Mark could understand the sort of vacation like atmosphere his father desired, but he believed when luxury was given, one would be quick to want. After all, it should be vacation like. He’d visit his father, holding his keys and some food, smirking at the sandals placed on the wooden floors next to the carpet. His father never liked wearing those things. Droplets of water hit his navy blue Armani suit. Shocked, he wiped it away, only for the drops to absorb into the woolen coat. His father never minded his attire stepping in his home; they had respect for one another. Mark touched the walls carefully, hoping he could feel the way his father did. He only felt for a second time water drops falling on his gelled head. It was quite a thud, for such a tiny amount of water. He felt his head, and tried to wipe the little amount off his head, while looking up. He told his father he would hire someone to fix his roof for him, hoping he would accept. His father declined, saying he would take care of it. Since he was small, Mark knew his father to be the strongest man alive, but now, his father just seemed unpractical. He kept quiet.
Mark remembered how his father used to tuck him to sleep at night, go close to Marks smile, and whisper to him about a 1968 red corvette he was destined to have. Mark anxiously wanted to get his father it so much, but didn’t know if it would just be a decorative item now. Mark watched his father put the fish line in the old fishing rod, and wished his father knew what he was missing. He looked down with a grin, and he bid his father a goodbye. He started his Lexus, and headed home.
Mark drove home. It was plain, and he got to see the environment swiftly. He got onto the highway. The highway started shaking, unbearably, where all the cars looked as though it was on a Jello pathway. Swaying back and forth the highway was. People started screaming, getting out of the cars and cars were smashing into each other and the people. Marks heart plunged and his heard raced as he anticipated his death while skewering any understanding of what was going on. Sparks of the metal and rock concocted fires. A plane was coming down too doom, and the noses visibility was getting larger and larger. The sounds of sirens grew stronger and the planes soaring almost deafened him. It was unbelievable at the view of Mark. His heart paced with apprehension, as his soul was ready to splat out. He pleaded to God for everything for those seconds. The plane looked as though it was so near, but not close enough for mark to get hurt. The only protection was a thin slab of glass called his windshield. He saw a bulldozer out of no where. It held up Houses, and dropped it in front of him. He saw the people die. He waited for his turn the Houses went down closer and closer. He was confused. He got out and ran, and ran. He didn’t look back at the hell. Ran and ran, and he was back. Back to his fathers’ home; where his father sat peacefully drinking some green tea on his red Burundian rug. He looked at him confused holding his tea and Mark looked at him back from the doorway, with his arm on his knee catching his breath as he saw his fathers’ life.
His heart felt at refuge.

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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/812971