Return to the Workshop

The hinges shrieked in protest, but the door ignored its cries and swung inward regardless. Whatever air was moved by the half-hearted push was like a hurricane to the dust coating the room, and miniature sandstorms raged across the hardwood floor. Steps that would have been more fitting in a child of nine or ten months were taken by feet many times that age; joints rusty with disuse creaked and moved the aged body forward.

Watery eyes scanned the room and its disheveled contents. He imagined he could feel the dust molecules gently landing on his pupils, creating a thin layer of mud from eyelid to eyelid. Perhaps this mud would cure him of his blindness, tears of regret and the dust of creation instead of the dust of the road the spit of a saviour.

Bony hands shook as if afraid before settling on a piece that had laid untouched for far too long. They gingerly raised the artifact upwards, brought the forgotten creating close to blinking eyes.

The thick coat of dust was stirred by the wheezing breaths, and the slow monotonous inhale and exhale became a series of hacking coughs. For a brief moment time stood still, and he took this moment to entertain the thought that perhaps he was dying, that neglecting his work had finally done him in. Then time began once again and on the ground were gobs of whatever he had hacked up in his lungs, and clutched in his hands was his invention, mostly free of dust.

He brought it to eye level once more and gazed upon it, fingers tracing its contours and edges, remembering when he had first laid hands on it. It felt good in his hands, and he knew that all around the room were similar projects, left to sit in the dark and the dust. Standing up a little straighter, he let out a deep sigh at the work in his hands.

This needs a lot of editing, he thought, fingers dancing just above the keyboard, disappointedly gazing at the screen.