Creative Writing: Wilday Morning Again

It is was Wednesday morning again. Or was it Thursday? Was it morning? Only through the subtle color of sunlight I can tell the time of day. It 's hard to tell when you haven 't a clock, or you have a clock but it 's broken. Indeed, the ticking of a clock arm had ended long ago. All I hear now are the footsteps behind me, the sound of a young man moping filthy floors that could never shine. They are made of old birch wood, rough and rotten from the spills of science.

Much of the furniture are worn out. It 's been seven years since I last appeared in the center of civilization. My son and I are not welcomed in the village. They believe us to be Satanists who perform sinister rituals, sacrificing children and women. That could not be further from the truth. We are doing the opposite. …show more content…
I had not made him. Only after leaving that town of hypocrites did I have time for research.

Life here is quiet. It is difficult. We grow our own little supply of food but it isn’t enough. Our clothes are worn and torn. There are times I must go into town or send Irvine. It is mostly him now, I’m not the mountain climber I used to be. I always told him this:

“Keep your head low and wear your hood. The villagers aren’t familiar with your face, let it stay that way.”

In our small abode there was a holy place, a place of wonderment. That place was the home of my long collection of knowledge. Thousands of books, of pages, bound in soft leather covers. Hidden among the very back of these was a series of small picture books. Pictures of my wife and I before she passed away. I’ve never shown those photos to Irvine, because Lilith was not his mother. No no, because she was a wench without courage, always drowning in self-pity. She finally did drown, many years ago, by her own feeble hands.

Behind me, Irvine’s work has ended. He reported to me as usual, in his wind chime voice.

“Father, I’m done cleaning. I will go out to the