On the Hatter...
Down the old lane that cast half its company in doubtful shadow by only the three o'clock sun or Winter's early moon, a small Hatter threw a crooked silhouette against the crumbling brick wall that hinged and latched the lane's end. By far the most aggressive tension in the shadow of the small professional was by his twizzled beard, which protruded at half-mast from the luck of his chin.
The afternoon sunlight brought out the hard work engrained into his countenance. Yet, part and parcel with that more dubious half of the lane, the keenness of his eye became dissolved into oblivion in his shadow. However, his cribbed outline remained in keeping with his stubbornly slight frame as it hunched doubled over in concentration. The hatter's better eye squinted past the gleaming toe of his boot in order to better guide his fingers in extracting the pebble lodged firmly in the crook of his heel. There he had been, taking the gravelled pathway in deep symposium and, just on the cusp of enjoyment, his heel had struck newly laid bitumen; his mind mind became unsprung and a heinous scraping of the maverick pebble caught in the way of his next step.
Rebellions of this kind often happened down that way, but the hatter recognised in himself panic's path of least resistance. It had been too unrelentingly trodden this past month and dislodging the pebble hardly made his next step feel any more certain. All equanimity was lost.
As professional as his way of working down the lane may have been, the worn stool which he had religiously squatted on at lane's end had gone many months without groaning under the weight of a once flourishing enterprise. And so, the impoverished Hatter could only collect himself towards the pernicious thought that life had become a wage now that he had none of his own.
#writing #scene #fiction #work #walking #contemplation #panic @ellowrites