Rain lashed against the window, creating tiny little rivers snaking down and away into oblivion. A steady glow illuminated the corner of the room, hovering over the lounge chair and the young girl in it. She was waiting for something to happen. Anything. Staring up, almost in a trance, she studied the lamp providing her with enough light to read by. It had been her grandfather’s.
The floor lamp was brass, with a green stone base, and a matching stone circle on the post. The shade was off white, with beautiful designs, and then the lights were turned on with fringe ropes. It was an antique so far as she knew, or at least, as her grandfather had always said, but she was unsure how old it was. She always meant to research it, look at the bottom of the base, and try to figure out where it was from, how it old it was, etc. etc. But she never had. Maybe she’d put it on a list for later.
The lamp meant a lot to her. When she had told her grandfather how much she loved it, him and her step-grandmother had immediately said that she would inherit it. Sadly, that day came much quicker than she wanted, but her step-grandmother kept her word, and even though much else was lost (read stolen) to her crappy sons, she made sure that the lamp was gotten to her. And here it sat, in the corner of the room, a sweet reminder of her grandfather.
The rain continued to beat against the roof, washing away the dirt of the past.
Fallon Willoughby 