Puce Has No Synonym.

-
 The puce coloured curtains hung heavy, like a dusty shroud over the window. The air in the room was thick and stagnant. The scrofulous, smelly old man sat in a worn-out armchair, his gaze fixed on the puce walls that enshrouded him. He took a drag from his cigarette, the smoke swirling, dancing with the dust motes, in the dim light.


His hands trembled as he reached for the glass on the table. The liquid inside matched the puce hue of the room. He swallowed it down, the bitter taste clinging to his tongue. The clock on the wall ticked on, a marching beat counting down the hours.


Outside, the city moved with a muted pulse. Sodium streetlights flickered in the gathering dusk. Shadows danced on the pavement, casting long, puce, distorted shapes. The man's mind wandered through the alleyways of his memories, each one threadbare tapestry woven of that same sombre colour.


A knock on the door interrupted the stillness of his dark thoughts. He rose slowly, the puce carpet muffling his shuffled footsteps. The visitor, a silhouette against the streetlights behind, spoke in hushed tones. The old man nodded, shrugged, his face expressionless, taking the envelope.


As the door closed, he returned to the armchair. He looked at the envelope. ‘Is it buff or puce,’ he wondered. Its contents a reminder of debts unpaid. He reached for another cigarette, the ember glowing in the dimness. The smoke curled and blended with the purple-brown shadows, before sinking to leave it’s nicotine sheen.


The phone rang, its shrill tone cutting through the heavy air. It was a voice from the past, a connection to a time when the world had a different tint. The conversation was brief, the words etched in the man's mind, a pulsating, puce, livid scar.


Night advanced, enveloping the city in an eerie puce and blue glow. The man stepped out into the streets, his footsteps echoing in the desolate alleys. A million LED’s lit signs that flickered overhead, casting a sickly pallor on the pavement.


He wandered aimlessly, the surroundings morphing into a surreal dreamscape. Faces passed by, their features distorted by the haunting colour. The man found himself in a bar, the dim light casting everything in shades of puce.


He ordered a drink, the liquid swirling in the glass like a diluted version of the room's hue. The bartender's eyes met his briefly, a silent acknowledgment of shared burdens. The man downed the drink, the bitter taste a reflection of his own bitterness.


As the night wore on, he stumbled through the empty streets, his mind a haze of regrets. The city slept. The man reached his destination, a desolate alley where shadows merged with the prevailing colour.


The sound of a single gunshot shattered the silence, the echoes reverberating through the night. The man crumpled to the ground, his life seeping away in a pool of dark blood, which slowly dried to a crusty puce. The city remained indifferent, its secrets buried in the grim embrace of the colour that permeated every corner, every memory.



Links


Much more of my stuff available at https://dailyprompt.page.link/X1qUyE2jz2gCFkzv5


Or see my book: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Tall-Tales-At-Bus-Stop-ebook/dp/B0B135RB4D/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3TGEU7HM5LEKT&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.qR5g4YN8X07Isx3scRia7Ky1T06Wa16Wv8RPTZPVWmE.i4Nl12KZvWpS64bNLKk7PdE7r2WvoI8tsiTkFSJoMYQ&dib_tag=se&keywords=tall+tales+at+the+bus+stop&qid=1705598867&sprefix=tall+tales+at+the+bus+stop%2Caps%2C163&sr=8-1

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Eli

-
Eli squinted, the unforgiving sun blazing relentlessly above. It has been years. A lifetime of this relentless brightness. His aged face, which bore the creases of someone who had lived through a particular era, looked out over the shimmering dunes of the desert, which seemed to go on forever. The tales of a bygone era, when the celestial expanse shimmered with countless stars and the serene glow of the moon illuminated the world, had faded into obscurity. Here, the past seemed to slip away, the moon a distant memory.  He embodied a bygone era, a living testament to a time when Earth's deteriorating ecosystems compelled a frantic quest for a fresh abode. This desolate, scorching planet, Proxima B, had provided the solution. But what is the price?  However, a gust of transformation swept through. The days gradually and inevitably became cooler. The sun appeared to sink lower in the sky. After months of careful observation, Eli confirmed a clear trend: the sun was gradually lowe...
Read more

The Kite.

-
He was definitely what you would call a weird man. No doubt about it. Bartholomew Wizzle lived in a charming little town that was like something out of a story book. The streets and alleyways were all narrow and twisty, with interesting nooks and surprising squares. The buildings all ancient and astonishingly close together. There was a Main Street, but it was mostly a market place and although the Main Street was paved with large stone slabs, the rest of the streets and alleyways were cobbled with the local blue-grey cobble stones from the silvery river that ran through the town. The town was surrounded by whispering forests and rolling hills. It was delightfully old fashioned and quaint. You wouldn't call Mr. Wizzle a regular guy. Nope. Not in a month of Sundays. What he was though, was a master of the esoteric arts, a dealer in anomalies, and a merchant of wonders. Hidden along a winding cobblestone alley, his little shop held an assortment of oddities, many of which would amaze...
Read more

Archibald

-
Archibald Wordsworth, a librarian of eccentric tastes, was a man of unique curiosities. His mind, constantly bubbling with a whirlwind of ideas, frequently became engrossed in the most peculiar of topics. And on this lovely spring morning, the humble pigeon captured his eccentric fascination. With a passion rivalling that of the most devoted bird enthusiasts, Archibald had immersed himself in the study of these winged inhabitants of Austin Majoris. Recently, he was regularly spotted sitting by the library window, captivated by the mesmerising spectacle of their elaborate movements along the bustling city streets. "Pigeons," he would mutter to himself, his eyes sparkling with an intriguing glimmer. "Intriguing beings." Some may view them as mere pests, but I see them as the true rulers of the cityscape, gracefully manoeuvring through the busy streets and narrow alleys despite their humble origins in the towering rocks and cliffs surrounding the city.” His colleagues ...
Read more