The man trudged wearily through the meadow. The sky was grey and the sun was low in the west. The grass danced lazily in the afternoon breeze beneath a handful of sparrows as they flitted from the varying heights of weeds. Time passed and the man's progress remained unmarked, so slow was his traverse. The shack he eventually approached was nestled in the side of the low rolling foothills of the nearby mountain range. The grasses grew waist high around its walls. Some even sprouted from its roof and from between the hand hewn logs that made up its construct. The wood was sun bleached to a dead grey, but the man's memory told him his home was still a rich reddish brown. He stopped at the door and turned to the west to gauge the rest of the day. Unimpressed, he wiped his nose from elbow to cuff of the tattered woollen coat. That too, had a deadened look which was obscured by yet another lie from his memory. He always referred to it as his green coat in remembrance of its original deep and vibrant colour. His eyes briefly scanned the horizon, he turned, ducked his head and entered through the low colourless door.
I was born in Southern Ontario. I now live in Southern Alberta with my Beautiful wife and our three awesome boys. I sneak as much time as I can for writing.