'Dynasty'A Story by Will Neill A man returns to his family home to persuade his mother to leave, only to find she has other ideas' Dynasty A short story by Will Neill The ivy had grown much thicker since the last time he had seen the house, it had almost obliterated the small lodge windows either side of the Ash wood front door. Its leafy fingers had curled over the roof tiles and spiralled along the decaying guttering. A gentle breeze stirred the small wooden child’s swing that still hung from the Apple tree in the garden. Some how he always remembered it to be much bigger when he was a boy, Alan smiled as the little swing rocked on its rope anchors, like an unseen hand was pushing it for his merriment, reminding him of happier days past, of a childhood spent on balmy evening. His mothers laugh as he cried ‘Higher-Higher mummy!’ Oh how he yearned for those carefree days of youth, that he knew now were gone forever. For a moment he was tempted to sit in the swing, to enjoy once more his boyish memories, but a man of forty can’t be doing such stuff, besides the branch was old, as was the swing. Alan rummaged in his jacket pocket and found a brass door key; he held it up to the sunlight, and rotated it slowly between his finger and thumb. Ever since he’d left home he had carried it with him, like a piece of the house was always in his hand-an icon that linked his past. To touch it sometimes was just enough. To hold it in the secrecy of his coat pocket, it felt like a magical symbol that could transport him back no matter where he was. Alan moved forward towards the ageing front door, its paintwork dull and weather worn, for a brief moment Alan paused with apprehension then took a deep breath; he slid the key into the lock. To his surprise the lock turned without a struggle, a twist to the right and access was granted. Inside the hall all the old familiar smells remained the once new carpet now threadbare, the furniture older and dustier. The room felt smaller than he had remembered as he lingered, then a movement caught his eye and broke his concentration. In the kitchen alcove an old woman stood silhouetted by the back light of the window. ‘Hello son’ she spoke ‘Nice to have you home’ For a moment Alan only stood and stared, and then nervously he replied. ‘Hello Mother’
The old lady smiled and shuffled into the living room. ‘Would you like some tea Alan?’ She asked. ‘We haven’t had tea together in quite a long time’ Alan dropped his head and sighed, ‘No Mother, no tea-we need to talk’ A frown crossed his mother’s face, ‘Why of course Alan, what seems to be bothering you’ In his mind he began to search for the proper words, he looked up at this frail old woman-his mother. ‘’This is hard’’ he thought. ‘Mother you have to leave this house’ he said softly-he felt a tear form in his eye. ‘Leave? But why, this is my house-your home, its been in the family for generations and soon it will be yours’ She shook her head unbelieving. ‘The house has already been sold Mother’ he could see the anguish in her eyes at his disclosure. ‘That’s why I came back, the new owners want to move in but until you leave this is impossible’ Suddenly the key felt cold in his hand, so cold it burnt into his palm-instinctively he dropped it to the ground. His mother’s eyes shone with contempt ‘Those strangers don’t belong here! I live here’ She snarled. ‘I chased them away before and I’ll do it again"NOW GO! Alan’s heart sank as he turned to the door, with one last glance he looked at her. ‘You must leave Mother, you must depart soon’ ‘Why must I?’ she retorted. Alan paused for a moment then spoke tenderly ‘Because you’re dead Mum’
‘‘Deep in the Earth my love is lying And I must weep alone’---------Edgar Allan Poe. Will Neill 2013
© 2013 Will NeillAuthor's Note
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Will Neillbelfast, United KingdomAboutWill Neill is an award winning Irish author, poet and amateur musician; Born in Belfast in the late fifties. Will has established himself as a prolific writer all over the world for both his prose and.. more..Writing
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