The prompt for this homework was ‘senses’.
I decided to write in the second person, so the reader is in the room, living the words on the page, and experience as it unfolds…
I really enjoyed writing this!
It is impossible not to marvel at the grandeur of the hall as you step through the dark oak-framed doorway.
A room forgotten, locked away in the recesses of your mind.
You smile, the sound of laughter elixir to your ears.
The rhythmic ticking of the Georgian grandfather clock, once a companion on a lazy Sunday afternoon.
Sunlight streams in through the metal framed window and you step forward to embrace the warmth as the rays caress your cheeks.
It is just how you remember it, down to the very last detail.
Worn and threaded oriental rugs beneath your feet, scuffed from years of footfall.
Oak study tables scattered throughout the room, littered with textbooks and reading lamps.
The portrait of a long retired house master still dominating the back wall above the grand stone fireplace, stocked deep with wood to feed the roaring open fire.
The wood crackles as the flames lick at the bark.
Wisps of smoke-like tendrils escape the white gold flames, tickling your nostril hairs.
You lick your lips, the taste of smoke bitter on your tongue.
You pick your way past gilded gold framed paintings, hanging proudly on walls of mottled red ochre.
Past walnut tired bookcases stocked floor to ceiling of academic leather-bound books.
Reaching out, you run your finger along the spines of a row of first editions, the engraved covers like braille to your fingertips.
One protrudes further than the others and you pull it out, intrigued as to its nature and origin, the lignin pages worn yellow from age.
A sudden cold breeze tickles the back of your neck, like icy tentacles.
You turn, brushing away strands of hair as they sweep across your face.
The door behind you closes, then silence.
There is no laughter, no murmur of voices… you are alone.
The book in your hands disintegrates to dust, trickling between your fingers to the parched floor.
The room darkens, colours fading to monochrome.
The taste of smoke now acrid on your tongue, the hearth choked with cinders.
The clock lies motionless in the corner its edges scorched, mechanical parts dispelled like organs.
The face cracked from heat, hands positioned at five to three.
Everything is eerily still, even particles of dust in the air appear suspended.
A shiver works its way up your spine.
You step back towards the doorway, your feet leaving no footprints.
Copyright © 2019 Lottie McKnight. All rights reserved.