I wrote this for my Two Words thread at GDC almost four years ago, and I’m reposting it as it is, however sorely tempted I am to edit it. The word provider was Mymiridion, who was new to the board back then. Sometimes I still miss that place, and all the little things (and little people) that made it such a cool board.
It happened every time she came to visit. The sun warmed his house. The wind moved through the branches of the maple tree that grew outside his window. The pendulum of his grandfather clock ticked faithfully. His fingers moved on the keyboard as he wrote.
Then it all stopped. Every time.
The leaves stopped dancing, the clock stopped noticing time, his lungs stopped expanding until his brain cried for oxygen, and he always inhaled sharply when he felt that first tremor of the ground shake his house from foundation to roof.
A pungent odor reached his nostrils, and his eyes shifted long enough to register that the bottle of beer he had been drinking had tipped down the side of his desk, and shattered. He didn’t care. Soon, he would only be smelling her. The light blinked and then went out as she walked past power lines, and a shadow that was more than darkness covered his house.