Short story: The Musician

It was a cold winters day, the snow lay thick on the ground but surrounding the house there were no footsteps left from visitors bringing packages on the cold icy morning. We were the only visitors calling on this freezing day.Id arrived at the house many times before, even dreamt round it as a smaller child, it was the kind you read about in books. puff up I say big it was bigger than ours but then most(prenominal) houses in the county were. It was white and wooden with a broken swing on the porch, maybe a little run bulge but it wasnt anything that a a few(prenominal) hours of hard grafting wouldnt fix. Well the drains they leaked too but I could live with that, as in the summer when I came walking down here with my friends I could smell daisies and all kinds of flowers growing in the fields. We always peeped through the window at the man inside. He interested us so ofttimes,not that we eer so truism him but all the stories that wed heard about him from our parents about th e myths of his life before telling us we shouldnt come and torture that nice old man, well what were we to do? We were just curious. We approached the house as we did each weekend with a bag of stones..Inside the house sits a musician seek desperately to write a decent song a song thats listenable to.He waits in his rocking chair swaying to and fro, pipe in one hand pen in the other, desperately distinct for the right words to touch the paper.As he begins he names his song The Song of The World Why? I dont know maybe he thought it would bring hope to his sad lonely life or perhaps he could think of nothing better.The man lives alone. He dreams of days gone(p) by and wishes that he could relive those moments of his youth. Nobody visits. Nobody calls.The grey trees outside growl a lonely kind of call to the man as if trying to tempt him outside so they can warn him of something. The floorboards below him creak as if there is another presence in the house. There isnt of course. Ther e neer is.He used to have so much, wife, children but now he has little more than a hovel. He visits the graveyard every day and has through since the accident. Many myths have built up around him in the town. Well thats just what our town is like every ones business is your own. No one ever wanted to help him but still he continues to create beautiful music for everybody.How do I know so much about him? Well I am the first visitor hes had for twenty years. He doesnt speak much but when he does he seems upset as if he is recalling the noncurrent, the past no one has cared about for what seem like an eternity.The first make a face I have seen from him is after hes succeeded with the first line and as he continues his smile grows. The phone continues to lie dormant. No relatives call, No friends from days gone by give him a second thought, perhaps its easier to forget he exists.He moves his pipe, puts down his pen. Slowly he stands the smile no longer on his face. He begins to weep . I am not sure what to do till he finishes crying. He describes how people used to want to listen to his music though now they prefer to make up stories and throw things at his home. Suddenly I was wrap up with guilt it had only been a bit of harmless fun I decided I was going to help the man whom I had tormented for so long.Each day during my summer holidays I would take fresh pies from my mother to him and I would listen to his stories. I would not know how much was real and how much was make-believe but I didnt really care we became best of friends and now he was happier he found it easier to write his songs again. One day I steal his songs and took them to a recording company. I came running back eager to tell him Id got him a recording contract.Apparently I had broken his trust. That was the last I ever saw of him. He felt heed sooner be as he was. Even so, after that summer we never threw things at his house again.