A short story, in which an imag­i­na­tive jour­ney occurs. Yeah, it’s mod­er­ately poor, but I wrote it in about 40 min­utes (as though it were an exam), so there we go. My excuses end. The story begins here.

Impris­oned.

Impris­oned.
The grey walls sur­round me. A shaft of light falls – at this moment – towards the door of my cell, the beam ema­nat­ing from a nar­row hole in the ceil­ing.
I sit against the door, in this ray of warmth which pierces the cold con­crete sur­rounds, and begin to drift towards sleep; the first for days.

A field.
My son is run­ning, in the golden expanse. He chases after the dog, yelling as it barks. I smile, and lean back into my chair on the veran­dah. Turn­ing left, I see my wife sleep­ing peacefully.

Awake.
Cold has returned, the sun has taken its gift of warmth. I move to the bed and sit – the wall does not change, yet I con­tinue to stare at it, as though it may do so at any moment.
Hours later, my eyes close. Scream­ing pierces the cell.

Home.
It is din­ner. My wife and child sit at the table, near a fire­place. I hear the rain out­side, beat­ing against the win­dows hid­den behind cur­tains. I leave the room to fetch a drink – the house is cold, apart from that room, and so I close the door behind me as I leave.

Awake.
My scream­ing has stopped. I don’t under­stand why it began. The wall is still the same.

Home.
Water flows into the first glass, into the sec­ond. The flow shud­ders as I fill the third, but runs still. It is dark in the kitchen by now – illu­mi­nated only by light of the storm beat­ing out­side. I did not bother with the light as I entered, and do not con­sider it as I leave the room.

Still.
I observe the wall still, trac­ing the imper­fec­tions of the slab over with my eyes. The lines blur, fad­ing to be imper­cep­ti­ble against the end­less grey expanse of the cell. Again, dreams come.

Home.
Car­ry­ing drinks, I leave the kitchen, walk­ing in the cold expanse between rooms. My feet sound against the storm, softly on car­pet.
The door. I swing it open, antic­i­pat­ing warmth, light, noise. Cold, dark, still.

Open.
My dream stops. I am awake again, my eyes open, my body upright (as it was when I slept). The room is no longer so dark – a dif­fuse light fills it from out­side. Morn­ing has come. See­ing noth­ing else, I close my eyes again, open­ing them to the dream.

Door­way.
I stand at the entrance to the room, as though it were a sheer precipice. The fire has been extin­guished, cur­tains blown open by the wind com­ing through gap­ing win­dows. Wind tears around the room, dis­plac­ing objects.
My wife and the boy can­not be seen.

Light.
Again, I awake. The sun creeps towards the point at which light enters my cell directly – its azimuth, for me. Not quite. Sleep comes upon me once more.

Entry.
I enter the room. Plac­ing glasses upon the table, I walk around the room. Both seats, empty. The fire­place bears not even embers – it is cold, the charred wood as dry and ashes undis­turbed as though it were the end of a long sum­mer.
Fran­tic, I yell from the win­dow. A noise from behind me. I turn, to observe noth­ing but two of the glasses fallen, blown hor­i­zon­tal by the wind.

Their water runs red.

Win­dows slam and lock fast behind me, and as I turn, they harden, darken, becom­ing opaque before my eyes.

Once more, I turn. My cell forms before me.

Cell.
The beam has arrived – I feel it, now attuned to the room and its changes. My eyes open – the wall which once had borne the entrance has changed.

I walk through the now-empty space, to observe the sun glow­ing golden against a field.

Leap­ing from the veran­dah, I chase my son, shout­ing, run­ning, across the golden expanse.

Tags: chair, Windows