|courtesy of Farlukar|
The task for this past week was to write a scene capturing all the senses including the sense of unknown, space and time. So much fun! Here's my take:
Dawn walked down the narrow corridor; the dim light from the dust encrusted windows hid the filthy carpet. She really didn’t care to see, each footstep brittle and crunchy, as if the rug had gotten wet, then froze. Something snapped beneath her boot. She reached down and picked up a pair of broken eye glasses. Rose tinted, like Martha’s. She hadn’t seen Martha in three days. Where had she said she was going? To dinner with Max, a guy she met at Book and Candle. He seemed a bit skeezy, but that’s the way Martha liked them.
Dawn shook her head and wandered down the hall until she reached door #25. She grasped the doorknob, grimacing at the tacky, sticky grime. She wiped her hand on her jeans and pulled a tissue out of her purse. She tried the knob again and it turned in her hand. She glanced up and down the hallway. If anyone else was here, she’d be in big trouble. If not for the note, she would have turned around and gone home. She inched the door open and peered through the crack. Pitch black. She opened the door wider, her nose twitching at the sulfur, spoiled milk and unidentifiable odors spilling out of the room. She pinched her nose and tried to take shallow breaths, gagging as rotten eggs coated her tongue.
She clicked on the flashlight and panned it around the closet sized room. Two doors, side by side, one scarred and pitted with multiple scratches. She knew what the other odor was now, wet dog. She decided to go with the less scarred door and avoid the dog, in case it was still there. The door opened, revealing a stairway, black as pitch, except for a minuscule glow several flights above. The bannister, worn smooth from a multitude of hands over the years, vibrated under her fingers. As she climbed the stairs, the glow brightened, revealing a room at the top.
It was a loft, half full of boxes and a couch with a package lying on one of the cushions. She inched over to the couch to see her name, printed in big bold letters, taped to the top of the box. She frowned, picked it up, held it to her ear and listened, then shook it. Nothing rattled. She pulled off the ribbon and opened the box. Inside, a remote with a note ‘press here’ with an arrow pointed at one of the buttons. Okay, what the heck. She sat down, pushed the button and the floor lurched and sank downward, leaving the light behind. She squealed, turned on the flashlight and clutched the cushions. The couch stopped with a thump, and she sat with her eyes tightly shut, waiting. When nothing happened, she cracked open one eye and jumped as all her friends shouted surprise, stepping back to reveal a well-lighted banquet hall decorated with birthday balloons and flowers. She slumped back on the couch and laughed.