A Work of Fiction In Progress
By Francis J. LaManna
It was pouring rain and old man Ottenbury was moving frantically around his house trying to get the windows closed. It’s a good thing, however, not all the windows were open because a house that big could’ve been soaked by the time a man as old as old man Ottenbury got around to closing them. There was no Mrs. Ottenbury, she passed naturally more than a decade ago, and his three kids were grown with lives of their own.
That last window, the one in the living room area was putting up a fight again as it always had. It was near impossible to close; for old man Ottenbury at least. As he pressured down on the small handle, he steadied himself with his left hand pressed against the glass. And then it happened, the glass shattered underneath the pressure of his hand. The sharp glass cut deep into his arm from his wrist all the way up to his elbow.
Ottenbury pulled his arm free and sat on the floor beneath the window. It was still pouring rain, but the sound of rain was soothing. The carpet around the old man was soaked. He closed his eyes and let his thoughts flow, occasionally grabbing onto the memories of his wife. He loved and missed her.
The body of old man Ottenbury was found several days later when the rain stopped. A woman walking past the house noticed the shattered window. Upon closer examination she saw a head and called the police.