Creative Writing: Corrow Common

Corrow Commons, a place of deep longing, as an elderly man and his son, who were all but familiar with the smell emanating from the dilapidated common, to which they once called their home. The cries of the damned called out to the old man, for him to ignore it behind a face which holds every voice dear, they were nostalgic… but he knew what needed to be done.His son was looking beyond the Corrow Common’s almost dreaded visage, knowing it was the one thing haunting his father’s otherwise clear mind. He was fumbling the matches in his hoodie’s pocket while looking at his father’s motionless hands. The elder took it all in, the negativity encompassed him, causing a feeling of unease. Corrow Common’s betrayed the moonlight emanating upon it with

The father stood there in an awkward fashion gathering the memories which elated him to the utmost degree, and locking away the nightmares of the past behind a illusionary veil of lies. The father then noticed how dry his lips were, and felt a sorrowful embarrassment come over him as a breath from Jack of the frost sent a sudden realization of what they came here to accomplish. He sighed and started to speak, “I apologize for taking so long, you know how much this means to me.” The son still feeling quite agitated toward his father, narrowed his eyes and said in response, “Yeah, Yeah, just don’t forget why we came here Pops. It is a cold night, so cold the sky must be ready to let loose with some snowfall.” “I understand let us do this quickly than…” the father said coarsely, stopping to cough a rather heavy cough. The son motioned his father with the matches and said a rather pointless phrase “Will you do the honors?” The father thought to himself “Not much of a

The mist he believed was begging him to not strike the match against the the book, though if he told his son that he would most definitely utter “Perhaps the sky is telling you to hurry it up.” The matchbook wasn’t heavy yet it felt like he was undertaking Thor’s great hammer, and was about to summon a bolt of lightning to decimate the once beautiful commons into charred ash. He dislodged a match with a quick tug of his wrist, the wood felt as if it was crafted by a master artisan, even though it was just some cheap matches bought from a local drugstore by his son in a rush. His hand felt his sons sweat on the match and carefully dried it off with his thin cotton scarf, as to not ignite it and him in a blaze of glory which would be lead to him being known as one of those “spontaneous human combusters” or whatnot. The “sandpaper” on the matchbook looked reused as if this is just one of the many times the past was burned like the witches of salem. He lifted the match slowly to stare deadeye into the very object which would reduce the last place of happy memories for him into