My second short story on here, only one response to Crystal Roses so far so check it out if you've a mind. Meanwhile, enjoy this new addition.

Sensible Madness
An...elderly man. Not attached, not a part of any job. Himself left to himself, nay a worry conjured in his mind. He kept apart from all others, trying to lead a life without human involvement. Hermit. Insane. Comments thrust upon his presence, though of course in his solitary state he never heard them. Indeed, they could be easily said to not be true...at least not insane - for awhile. But many felt he begun to...change. Though his trips within the range of others were few if at all, certain differences were noticed. The parcels. Regular, every day, parcels with strange curly postage stamps, if any stamp at all. And now, people walking in the hills, where his (reasonably well furnished) hut stood - never saw him. A light in the window, yes. And one girl, a mere nine years of age, even said she saw his silhouette, and yet as she watched for a full five minutes, that silhouette did not move. Childish frolics though, to be sure. The man was clearly there! All the parcels, and the light in the window. And yet this story starts in a most unlikely place, in Wales, a full 120 miles from the place of these events. A lone hut in Wales, in which lives an elderly woman. A hermit. Insane.
If anyone had looked into the hut through the single window that night, they would indeed have been surprised. For inside was covered, yes covered in paper. Brown paper. And white paper. And ink, ink streaming everywhere, across the paper, like blood over the floor. A metaphor even more ironically appropriate for it was red ink that mostly stained the flattened trees. Why? Well perhaps there was a purpose, even in her misted mind. For among the wetness were words, etched as if by hand of steel, and their meaning was rippled with lies, like fish inside a shark. Many. And even now she sat writing, scribbling, drooling out the words with a rigour and wonderful enthusiasm. Items too! Items wrapped, ready to be wrapped, and not wrapped at all, all with the same address. Broadmoor. Broadmoor, Cornwall. And yet...Broadmoor is not in Cornwall...
Let us fly. Let us fly across the miles, and alight our minds in a public house, in which an irate postman speaks. Yet, that is hardly an issue. The issue is the man in the corner, hovering surreptitiously over his pocket. His corner. Inside that glass, that smells so pungent, is his corner, his little place in the earth. It is clear he thinks so, for often he slurps at his corner, bloodshot eyes a little dogged, and a smile painted round his yeast stained lips. And his beard – ah that is the interesting part! His beard is so white, so long, so large. And his beard, almost exactly resembles the man who lives in the hut, upon the hill.
Another letter. A letter to the man in the hut, upon the hill. And this letter, with its bloody address, was from Wales. And its length was an extraordinary length, enough for any manuscript one would care to mention. And the man read it, and anyone watching him would have clearly seen his face turn white and wan, and his eyes shrink until they were unintelligible dots, which displayed not much emotion but when combined with his other sickly features left a definite impression on the mind.
There is a new parcel. A parcel stranger than the others, flat, rounded, like a coil. Why? What is this parcel? Piano wire? Whatever it is, the man, he opens it with eager eyes, and his pupils, they enlarge once again, looking happy and fulfilled. He breaths deeply, breaths again after all the waiting he has gone through. And still, still he sends nothing back, nothing back to this mysterious gift sender. He retreats back to his hut, on the sloping hills that shine so, and though not damp refract the sun with a surprising vigour. And it seems as if the light is particularly focused upon this man and his hut, and the sun hangs over him as if he has been noticed.
Back again we go to Wales, where the woman in her papered hut lays. Lies with all her paper, and all her precious flowing ink dribbling and falling and splashing around her. Like a bloody waterfall. And yet she smiles, smiles so benignly that she could almost be asleep. Dreaming. Wandering in a misty land of no laws nor reason. And yet her grin is so wide and yet so unfaltering – one is forced to wonder if she lies in this world at all. And still the bloody waterfall continues, and yet is it perhaps a little dark, a little dense, for just ink?
And back in the old man’s cottage, he has unwrapped the parcel. Rope. He has strung it around himself, strung it around his most delicate parts, and as he attaches the other end to a rafter in the ceiling he looks blissful - wonderfully, manically happy. There is no one around. Like there has always been no one for the elderly man. Never. So he stands upon his stall. And he looks around. He looks and he thinks, and then he stops thinking, and kicks his stool. It clatters to a halt, even more continently blocking the timber door. He does not struggle. He does not kick. But he looks...a little sad. A little lonely. This does not last for long though, soon his lips, they are tinged with a blue streak. So slowly, oh so slowly, he departs to another realm, where others will surround him, and welcome him so warmly. Now the hut is deserted, no living thing in there. The man hangs like a chandelier, and he will not be discovered. Not for days. And when he is who will truly miss him?

In Wales, 120 miles away, an old woman smiled.

A response would be awesome lol

Such is life as it is, or was.

I was a little confused to start. In the beginning, so I started over. Twice.

Your world opened up and I saw, no taken by the nape of my mind and
found the paper hut, there, where no one cares. Especially the hermit.

Different. Very enjoyable.

Jack

Super Though you seem to be the only one on this forum lol

Oh so sad.
I like your stories, even though they are a bit different. But that's what makes them unique, right?
Keep writing!

Hope_princess:
Just for the sake of opinion, why do they seem different to you?

Well....
You started out writing it...how should I say...old fashioned, but I like that.
And the subjects you chose for your story, they are what I would call different. Probably because I've never read anything like them before.
...Just my idea of different.

Ah I see. Thanks