Mitchell Howard
Bio
Lover of horror, romance and croissants.
Sport addict.
Mental Health, Disability and AOD advocate.
Support worker/Educator
Stories (2/0)
Dear Alcohol
Dear A, This letter is to let you know I’m moving on. I won’t pretend that I didn’t live for your very essence. It was a perpetual sin of mine to lust over you, I couldn’t walk past you without entertaining the idea that you could illuminate a light in me that was constantly shunned by a wicked darkness. A darkness which I now realise was soaked by your ability to tantalise my foolishness. You were everything I wanted but not what I needed.
By Mitchell Howard3 years ago in Humans
Long Lost Friends
Elegance was viewed from the lone bedroom on the second floor. A set of peeping eyes squinted past the limp curtain, marvelling at the shape gliding across the frozen pond which sat just meters away from the back gate The eyes belonged to the weathered face of an older lady. Her cold breath stuck to the windowpane like a stain, holding onto the essence of the images taking place below. With a twist and turn, the sound of scraping ice transcended through the air, becoming a tune for the watcher in the night to dance along too. Swish, swish, cut, cut, the skates danced in and out in patterns many would dream to recreate, making shapes in the ice reminiscent of hard work, determination, and a passion for the experience. The watcher in the night moved back from the glass, her hands trembling with excitement. Each stride defrosted her solitary heart. Sounds of lines painted on an artist’s canvas surrounded the older lady from all angles, replaying themselves over and over again. She began to move slowly to the mesmerizing sound, as if it was a tune memorised from one’s childhood. Swooning over the grace she had once moved subconsciously too, her feet memorized methodical paths, hands followed suit. The chill feeling of her ice rink back home turned the crackling fire in the background to ice. Her nimble feet glided past the bed frame, her toes filling the slight gap between her and the bed. Blood rushed over her body, heating her heart more than the flames of her open fire ever could. A slow spin with aged beauty replicated what was once a sharp finish. Her moves matched the books which settled on the shelf next to the fireplace, vintage pages with stories from yesteryear, ideas, passageways, places to learn from. A sanctuary which reflected the splendour of her moves, as the dance continued by the fire, her movements effortless. It was only until a machiavellian Tabby cat which had crept sneakily through the gap in the door disturbed her balance. The older woman slipped from the trance, but her legs worked into overdrive. Muscle memory kept her from any serious injury. “Jesus Buttons” she barked through trembling breaths. Her hands met the windowsill as her extended arms kept her balance. Her heart trembled, the exhilaration kept her body warm, as blood circulated around the body, pumping at an extreme rate. Her breaths matched it, heavy with each expiration. What was emitted from her mouth once again caught itself on the glass she looked through. There was no longer a shape on the frozen pond, her eyes searched, weaving through the moonlit forest to see any trace of what, but to no avail. Seconds passed as the beating heart which pulled at her knit slowly settled, before it sat, content.
By Mitchell Howard3 years ago in Fiction
