Flash Fiction - Sanctuary of Silence

The Victorian farmhouse is empty, devoid of intruders. Absent are the giggling children, the whining children, the rambunctious sounds of play or discontent. No demands for attention from the mate. It’s almost completely silent, truly a rare, blissful moment that must be recorded. The television in the nearby room sits blankly, its screen reflecting only the windows across the way. The invasion of stimuli quelled with the push of a button. There is no radio, or radio announcers, and no music, just undisrupted repose, the exquisite rarity of the moment, memorably extraordinary. In the adjoining room, the wide wooden planks of an seemingly ancient ceiling fan spin slowly above a large oval mahogany dining room table. The cool, hard surface of the table contains scratches and even a few gouges from Thanksgivings, Christmases and birthdays; quiet scarred memories of blissful times. A circular silver tray sits at its center reflecting the turn of the fan above which provides a cool and relaxing gentle breeze that delicately nudges the ivory colored sheer panels which transparently conceal the tall painted white windows, a quiet and peaceful motion.

At the center of the room, at the center of this house, sits a woman who is the center of it all. Abstract oil paintings hang upon the surrounding walls waiting to be understood, to be noticed, not unlike the woman herself. One painted with rich hues of orange, yellow and white mixed together like a melting sun. Another colored with vibrant greens and splashed on cherry reds looks nothing like the holiday they typically represent. She sits, with her pen in hand, in a wobbly oak chair that has sat dozens before her. The undulating air causes the leaf of the notebook paper she scribbles across to slightly lift at its corner in a waving motion with each rotation of the blades. “Hello” it seems to say to the verdi-green metal floor lamp across the way, “We don’t need you yet.” Light still filters its way between the wooden slats of the white window blinds. A rhythmic, but barely audible sound comes from the pen as she pushes it along the page. This amicable loneliness is quite unlike the hectic, scheduled, and infinitely busy loneliness she is accustomed too.

Turning her head towards the wide, but short mahogany bookshelf, she considers the books that wait to be read. Resting undisturbed, the dust gathers along the edges and across the tips of the spines. Those with embossed letters of gold, now dulled by the veil of light grey particles, beg the loudest to be pulled from their confines and re-discovered. This possibility is quickly erased by the meddlesome sound of squeaking breaks outside. She flinches with each slam of the car doors. Voices and jingling keys prompt her to close the notebook and stand-up, where her reflection in the glided framed mirror over the painted white mantle sees her recognizing that the moment is gone.

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