Flickering Cigar

Rain trickles down the window panes, droplets racing one another in elaborate streams. The sky outside is grey, and little can be seen through the rain-stained windows. White concrete walls tower upward, and a staircase twists its way around the octagonal-shaped walls. Old rough hands, ones lined with grease and look as if they’d seen a life of hard labour, grabbed for a kerosene lantern. The trembling fingers fumbled a match and lit the lantern, before beginning to ascend the stairs.

Albert Hofsman stood watch over the shores of the Eastern Sea. His weathered body had led ships to safety through the great beacon of the lighthouse for many years. His life was lonely and simple, but Albert loved it anyway. When he was a younger man he’d leap up the stairs, but nowadays his hands grab tight the railing as he slowly shuffles up. On the rainy day, when he reached the top of the lighthouse, he took the kerosene lantern and lit the fire of the beacon. He then slumped back into his maroon leather chair, and poured a glass of whiskey from the side table. He plucked a cigar from the inside of his brown tweed jacket, and lit it against the lantern he’d now placed on the table.

Albert sat, blowing out smoke rings from his cigar and sipping his whiskey. As anyone who has tasted this pairing would know, Albert was in absolute comfort. He had glasses perched atop his nose, and his shoulder slumped forwards as if they held an immense weight. His face was creased like an old book, and stories swam within his eyes. His untrimmed white hair was littered with wisps of darker grey, and a shaggy beard covered his face.

In his chair his mind drifted to the many stories he’d found himself entangled in over his years at the lighthouse. He was a keeper of the Light, and that meant that one could find themselves in a whole lot of trouble from time to time. He remembered stormy days where he’d stand on his toes, letting the wind catch him and hold him near the edge of the cliff. Feeling the sting of the cold rain on his face, knowing he was alive. He remembered racing up the stairs on misty days, lighting the beacon only seconds before the ships had nearly met their fate against the rocks. Oh yes, Albert had a fought a battle. His job was hard, and his family had all left him for the world beyond by now. He thought of his wife, and the beauty and grace she had possessed. Oh what he’d do to see her again.

Albert had many stories, ones of despair and hope and tragedy and joy and life. In his life he had had trouble, but the beautiful kind, the kind that is persevered through and learnt from. He took heart, weathered the storm, the relentless beating of wave against rock. Now here he sat in his leather chair, looking out over the misty waters, and recollecting on the adventure that had been. He’d fought, his bones ached, his life spent.

Albert slumped back in his chair, the remains of the cigar falling from his fingers to the floor, the ash heap now flickering softly in the dark

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