Local Writer Christopher Lee Shares His “Precious Things”


    Starting with Precious Things, local writer Christopher Lee will be sharing his work with us on a semi-regular basis. We look forward to seeing what’s next —


    Precious Things by Christopher Lee


    Alone the man sat, reclined in the chair that had been his for going on fifteen years, now. That, at least, was how the man perceived it. Oftentimes, while sitting in isolation, he would wonder what exactly kept him so attached to an ancient piece of furniture. Certainly, there were other things strewn about in his sanctuary that held a special place in his heart. From where he now sat, the man could clearly see the reflective shimmer, creating a strong contrast against the matte- finished dresser which it had been lovingly placed atop.



    Further back in the room, just beyond his precious shimmer, sat the once- vibrant sunflower that had long since lost all traces of former elation. It seemed to almost sulk, facing its fallen pedals as if mourning their loss. This, of course, was just another result of the neglect that had become pervasive. Newspapers lay, unread, in piles that had now come to designate his walkway through the debris. In another corner, one opposite from the clay pot that cradled the mourning plant, towered numerous structured and carefully arranged mountains of books; several spanning the void between the hideous decades- old pink carpet and the ceiling. There was a plethora of variety in these heaps; styles that ranged from two or three Grisham tales to cookbooks written entirely in Mandarin Chinese. The largest mass among these, though, stood an avid collection of romance novels; numbering at perhaps five hundred or better. As the man’s gaze wandered through the stacks of literature, a thought occurred to him, and he let out a boyish chuckle that seemed to linger in the cold silence. Of course, he took no notice of this, and erupted in laughter once again.



    “Get it? These stacks-a books have become pillars of knowledge!”



    There was no answer—nor should there have been, with no one to answer—and yet, he continued to revel in his joke in solitude anyway.



    But, oh, how he adored the carefully- structured disaster that seemed to spread out from the room’s epicenter; the place where he spent a majority of his days, weeks, months, often reclining while still peering around to marvel at his precious things. To the man, it felt as though time almost disappeared while his mind wandered the magnificent catacombs of what his daddy might have called his casa. Suddenly, the half- witted smirk that he almost always had began to disappear; being traded for a look of complete vacancy.



    My daddy is dead, the man thought…The intrusive, nagging voice had vanished as quickly as it had interrupted.


    Long, long ago, before the man’s social nature had vanished; he’d in fact had many friends. But, what of them now, he sometimes wondered on days that he felt especially isolated; days like this one, where the only company he had were the endless piles, and the things that he had taken for his own. It was because of this dedication that everything felt complete, for surely if nothing else was owed to the man, a certain content happiness was. Through the rows, a grandfather clock—one that seemed to have been passed down many generations—began to chime its lovely tune to inform the household that it was now seven o’clock in the evening. A beaming grin spread across the man’s face as he sat forward, using his legs to return the recliner footrest to its natural position as part of the chair.


    “Now, why is seven such a magical time of day?” He asked, still smiling his widest smile.


    Again as before, no response was given. Yet, the man did not care—not one bit at all. Standing up with a fragile grace, he shuffled over to the chair that sat reclined to the left of the one he had just left. Extending his right hand as he walked forward, his heart began to race. Of all the things he had collected, this was his prize possession. More important than all the books, the withering plant, all of the garbage that outsiders took for granted; more significant to the man than even his precious shimmer—a thought he never would have believed possible before. Finally, as he came to a stop beside the chair, he extended one dirt- covered hand toward the article on the throne.


    Slowly, he whispered: “Because it’s our time, darling.”



    Christopher Lee was born and raised in Orlando, Florida and from a young age, always had a penchant for writing. During his high school years, Christopher worked closely with a lot of other writers in groups and continues to work alongside his friends and colleagues still. Although he often dabbles in various hobbies such as playing music, this man’s heart will always belong to his writing. Even though he is new to publishing his work, there is no doubt that Christopher Lee is a name to be remembered and a force to be reckoned with.