The Abandoned Cul-De-Sac

There was an old poor man who lived in an abandoned cul-de-sac in England. He was a veteran, with no job training or experience. He found the cul-de-sac purely by good fortune. It had once been a wealthy neighborhood, with fine old houses with perfect front gardens. Even the smallest house around had a least seven bedrooms, a solarium, and two libraries. It must have been a wonderful sight at the height of its glory.

But there was nothing left now.

One of the houses was completely blown apart, and the wooden planks lying still rotting on the ground seemed as though Mother Earth was trying to reclaim them. The surrounding houses of the cul-de-sac were large, elaborate, and boarded up. That was how the man had come to live in one. He survived catching rats and other vermin, eating wild plants from the surrounding country-side, and the like. It was a quiet life.

Then three people entered the hollow just as the sun rose one summer morning. People were rarely seen here anymore; an electrical fire causing a gas explosion proved that the houses here were unsafe. Once, a man had tried to make him leave his house, telling him it was far too dangerous to live there. But the houses were long disconnected from gas and electricity. Occasionally, a good-for-nothing teenage gang would venture there for one reason or another, but they never entered any houses. They knew it was the old man's home, and oddly enough, they respected him. Well, maybe feared.

The three continued down the abandoned street. They had no car; to the man, they seemed to have appeared from thin air. The early-morning mist swirled about their feet, creating a mystical air that was breathtaking for the man to watch. As the early-morning sun broke over the horizon, it was clear to him that the figures were a boy flanked by another boy and a girl. They looked about 19, or perhaps they were just prematurely aged. The boy in the center walked with purpose while the others hung back with reluctant steps and glances toward each other. That boy reminded the man of a commander with two lower officers following. He was authoritative; they were faithful, and submissive.

The sun pierced the mists and the last bit of grey fled in fear. Even clearer now, the boy in the front was seen to have glasses, black hair, and bright green eyes. His two timid companions were illuminated as well; the girl had auburn hair and cocoa eyes, and the boy was ginger-haired and had brown eyes as well. The trio began to slow as they reached the destroyed house. Directly across the street, the old man had an excellent view of the scene.

The black haired boy suddenly sped up, his feet slapping the once-familiar pavement, the once-neat yard, jumping over the rotting and long-singed planks, running into a once-beautiful foyer that was now a square patch of nothing. The man narrowed his eyes

"Harry..." whispered the girl as she came up behind him, barely audible but packed with emotion.

The boy called Harry had silent tears on his cheeks, unseen to everyone. His voice was steady, his legs were firm, and his hand, curling into a fist, was determined.

"I'm ready," said the boy calmly. "I'm ready now."