This is the beginning of a shot story I am working on based on The Story of Film: An Odyssey written and narrated by Mark Cousins. Mark is Irish and has a quiet, lilting, almost hypnotic way of speaking. He speaks in short sentences that end in what sounds often like a question. I was intrigued by the sound and quality of Mark's narration and started writing a story in the same style.
And Old Man With a Pipe
An old man, with a pipe, sits, on a wood bench, under a tree, smoking.
At his feet, is his dog, who is old, too. And is blind. His fur is brown, his muzzle gray.
The old man wears a wool cardigan, and a snap brim hat, even though it is summer, and 90 degrees, in the shade. The old man is thin. His circulation poor. These days he always feels a chill.
His eyes are blue. Not the blue of the sky, but the blue of slate. Like the slate on the roofs of the buildings, across the square, on the other side of the war memorial. His eyes have seen 92 summers, 92 winters, come and go. 92 springs and 92 falls. He fought in the Great War. And survived. His name is not one of the names on the war memorial.
Sunlight filters through the canopy of the big tree. Its trunk is wide, its leaves are deep green, and heavy. The old man relights his pipe.
He is thinking, of his wife, who died. He was 80, she was 72. When she died, the dog was just a pup. Now his dog is old. But unquestioningly loyal. A good companion. A silent companion. Everything that needs to be said, has been said, already. The old man and his dog communicate, without words. It's an ironic reversal. He is the old dog's Seeing Eye person.
Across the square, the clock in the church, chimes 12. Noon. The old man is hungry. And thirsty. He reaches down and pats the dog. The old dog has been sleeping, but is now awake. Lunch, says the old man. The old dog yawns, shakes his fur, and gets slowly to his feet. Together, they walk across the square, to the cafe.
The old man sits, at a table, on the street, outside the cafe, under a red umbrella. The old dog settles, under the table.
The owner of the cafe smiles at the old man, says hello. The usual? he asks. The old man nods. And a bowl of water, please, he adds.
The waitress, who is blond, and well fed, sets down a pint of ale, on the table, and places a bowl of water, under the table. She strokes the old dog's muzzle. Drink, she urges. The old dog senses the water. Takes a long drink.
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