Here's a very short story I wrote for English Class once. Short and sweet!
The wind whistled and billowed atop the golden trees and the falling leaves were cast into the churning air. For the briefest of moments the sky turned a honeycombed yellow until the wind fatigued and gave in. The leaves slowly descended and landed in a scattered pile before a magnificent manor, all the while surveyed by old man Windsor.
"Bloody seasons." he muttered grumpily to himself.
Standing alone in the manor's cigar room he scrutinised the wide, open grounds with irreverent distaste. He hadn't hired a gardener in years and the acres of land that he had once been proud of now lay forgotten and forlorn. His bitterness engulfed the room along with his cigar smoke.
"Your afternoon tea, sir." preceded the voice of Cockswold the aging butler before he entered the room. The tea tray trembled in his hands. This was often put down to his worsening arthritis of which he assured Lord Windsor would not hinder him in his duties.
"You're late Cockswold. Tell me, why do I continue to employ a useless worm such as yourself?" spat Windsor with relish.
"I don't know sir..." replied a defeated Cockswold.
"Well you had better make haste in future old man or I may find myself no longer requiring your services and I will be free from your blight upon this establishment!" Windsor hissed venomously.
Cockswold shifted awkwardly on the spot for a second then proceeded to polish the already mirror like surface of the cigar room table.
"Look at it! Look at it Cockswold! The Grounds! They're a shambles man, a shambles. If you weren't as useless as a chocolate fireguard I'd have you out there picking up those blasted leaves. By hand!" Windsor exclaimed, his voice straining to breaking point and then retreating back down into his ravaged chest.
"Sir, with all due respect, you never leave the manor anymore so surely the grounds hold little importance to you. There are much more pressing matters to attend to at present, wouldn't you agree?" said Cockswold as sternly as he could. Though his steady voice couldn't hide the fear emanating from his eyes, which were now wide with fear and apprehension.
Windsor turned around slowly on the spot. His large, once robust frame obscured the daylight from the old butler and cast a dark and malevolent shadow over his bent and beaten body.
"Now you listen to me very carefully wretch. If I wanted someone around to answer me back and pose me with asinine questions I would of spared my wife! But I didn't. I spared you. Now Cockswold do you want me to regret that decision? uttered Windsor, his voice now barely a whisper.
Despite the implicit nature of Windsor's threat Cockswold understood it as clear as crystal. His voice had gotten lost somewhere around his lower intestine, perhaps setting up an abode with the hissing snakes that seemed to have materialised from nowhere. Not wishing to give Windsor another excuse to exercise his sadistic nature he left the room as quietly as possible.
Windsor wheeled back around to face the grounds once more and silently stowed away his blood stained knife.
The wind whistled and billowed atop the golden trees and the falling leaves were cast into the churning air. For the briefest of moments the sky turned a honeycombed yellow until the wind fatigued and gave in. The leaves slowly descended and landed in a scattered pile before a magnificent manor, all the while surveyed by old man Windsor.
"Bloody seasons." he muttered grumpily to himself.
Standing alone in the manor's cigar room he scrutinised the wide, open grounds with irreverent distaste. He hadn't hired a gardener in years and the acres of land that he had once been proud of now lay forgotten and forlorn. His bitterness engulfed the room along with his cigar smoke.
"Your afternoon tea, sir." preceded the voice of Cockswold the aging butler before he entered the room. The tea tray trembled in his hands. This was often put down to his worsening arthritis of which he assured Lord Windsor would not hinder him in his duties.
"You're late Cockswold. Tell me, why do I continue to employ a useless worm such as yourself?" spat Windsor with relish.
"I don't know sir..." replied a defeated Cockswold.
"Well you had better make haste in future old man or I may find myself no longer requiring your services and I will be free from your blight upon this establishment!" Windsor hissed venomously.
Cockswold shifted awkwardly on the spot for a second then proceeded to polish the already mirror like surface of the cigar room table.
"Look at it! Look at it Cockswold! The Grounds! They're a shambles man, a shambles. If you weren't as useless as a chocolate fireguard I'd have you out there picking up those blasted leaves. By hand!" Windsor exclaimed, his voice straining to breaking point and then retreating back down into his ravaged chest.
"Sir, with all due respect, you never leave the manor anymore so surely the grounds hold little importance to you. There are much more pressing matters to attend to at present, wouldn't you agree?" said Cockswold as sternly as he could. Though his steady voice couldn't hide the fear emanating from his eyes, which were now wide with fear and apprehension.
Windsor turned around slowly on the spot. His large, once robust frame obscured the daylight from the old butler and cast a dark and malevolent shadow over his bent and beaten body.
"Now you listen to me very carefully wretch. If I wanted someone around to answer me back and pose me with asinine questions I would of spared my wife! But I didn't. I spared you. Now Cockswold do you want me to regret that decision? uttered Windsor, his voice now barely a whisper.
Despite the implicit nature of Windsor's threat Cockswold understood it as clear as crystal. His voice had gotten lost somewhere around his lower intestine, perhaps setting up an abode with the hissing snakes that seemed to have materialised from nowhere. Not wishing to give Windsor another excuse to exercise his sadistic nature he left the room as quietly as possible.
Windsor wheeled back around to face the grounds once more and silently stowed away his blood stained knife.