Nikolis Atkinson

The Walnut Café

Jean was sitting in his grandfather’s old rocking chair, he had sat there for the better part of the morning. He was immobile, statuesque. His chest lifting slightly, elevating only to depress and fall further into his form, this was the limit of his movement. An all too necessary action, one which Jean would rather have not even taken if he could have helped it. His chest hung low, dangling over his legs, and his head even lower, hiding the vital redness of his eyes and the simple streams that fell further down. These currents of life in Jean’s momentarily inanimate body fell on his legs, trailed down them and onto the red oak floor. These were the moments when Jean truly felt alone. Not in a physical sense of course, as the house was bustling with relatives and old family friends, but in a sincere way only a true artist can be. Jean’s grandfather was kin more than just in name or blood, but in his passions. He sat there at his grandfather’s desk, with his grandfather’s old recipe book in hand. His body pressed into the cold chair by an immeasurable sense of depression, one which might have seemed familiar to some onlookers. Jean was alone.