The Old Fool (Inspired by Philip Larkin) Alex Frost, Year 12 The storm was growing rapidly. It spat and roared in rage at the old man and his house, threatening to engulf them as it had many others. Never had the old man felt so powerless. There was a time when he and his house, both young and strong, could have braved the storm, though at that point it was nothing but an insignificant, lingering cloud. Instead he stood, peering through cracked windows at the violent darkness that was quickly surrounding him. The aged cottage could not cope with the roughness of the storm. With each relentless gust of wind, the rotting frame moaned in despair. With each ruthless drop of rain, the thin wooden supports trembled and sagged, cowering in terror from the downpour. The dimly lit living room’s autumn-coloured carpet also felt raindrops, but these were from the pools of tears leaking from the old man’s eyes. Hurriedly, worn curtains were drawn and paint-cracked doors slammed shut. As the old man retreated within it, the cottage stared vacantly out towards the menacing, ever-darkening clouds; immobile and hopeless like a body without a soul. Inside, the old man found solace. Gazing at the polished wooden shelf above the glowing fireplace, he found a picture of his wonderful daughter, brimming with happiness. She was hand in hand with a strapping young fellow who had just been pronounced her husband, however the old man couldn’t quite recall his name… He vividly recalled the vibrant day though. Sitting amongst dazzling red, purple and blue orchards with a sweet springtime smell of blooming flowers wafting under his nose. The old man reminiscently wandered down the vast hallway. The storm outside was booming with anger, clawing at the red brick roof like a tractor harvesting crops. Wooden beams squeaked underneath the old man’s feet, as if the cottage was desperately beckoning him to come forth and face the tempest. He heard none of it. Lost in a world of his past, he continued wandering. On a coffee table by his side, the old man found a small, ceramic snowman that he and his grandson once used to decorate the family Christmas cake over a decade ago. Its base was still coated in a thick layer of icing, now hard as stone. He remembered the familiar taste of that delicious sugary coating that he enjoyed since conception. He remembered the explosions of flavour as his young self chomped down on a hearty Christmas lunch, fit with crispy pork crackling, glazed with his all-time favourite mint jelly. The old man strolled further and bent down to inspect a sizeable dent in the wooden wall that he’d deposited many years ago when experimenting with his slingshot. Turning a corner, he found a bedroom like no other. The walls were plastered with a beautiful floral design and shelves upon shelves were crammed with every model car his young mind could have imagined, all gleaming from the numerous hours of vigorous polishing. Lying in his cozy bed, his mother would tuck him in. The nightly chapters of Jack and the Beanstalk would roll off her tongue and nourish his hunger for rest. At the end of the hallway lay a paint cracked door. Eager to find what fond childhood memories lay behind it, the old man grasped the worn brass handle, turned and pulled. The path of life, forged from the labour of his former self, wasn’t intended to be a two-way road. The door swung open. While the old man had forgotten about the storm, the storm it had not forgotten about him. A mighty gale tore through the cottage, the storm’s twisted talons latching onto parts and hauling them into darkness. Up high on extinction’s alp nobody heard the old man’s cries as the storm gripped him and pulled him into a familiar oblivion.