I have a vacation day tomorrow (Dec. 7th) and spent this evening keeping up with all my blogging buddies’ posts. And….I found this. Since I don’t have to get up and the crack of dawn in the morning, I decided to participate. Yikes! My first fest that requires something written….deep breath….
This is the Through the Keyhole Blogfest and it’s hosted by Madeleine over at Scribble and Edit. Here are the rules (copied and pasted from her site):
Describe someone’s living space in no more than 500 words so that we can vividly imagine the absent person. Then guess from the descriptions posted the type of person who might live in a room like this.
It could be a policeman, assylum seeker, a housewife, an author, a foster child, a Vicar who likes DIY, an axe murder (!) anyone you like, really, but not anyone famous.
All you have to do is visit her site, enter the link to you entry post on the linkey, leave a comment for her, and then check out posts from other participants. How easy is that?
The blogfest is open until December 11 and you can post anytime between now and then. Without further ado, here is my entry:
Snow fell lightly on the uneven and fallow ground. As I looked around, it seemed the tower was situated in the middle of an ancient looking and quite forgotten garden. The scattered trees were fruit bearing trees but, since it was winter here, I couldn’t tell if they still lived.
I made my way carefully to the great, heavy door of the crumbling tower and, finding it unlocked, I pushed it open, cringing at the screeching of the hinges.
There was no furniture in the circular room, nor any windows, only a staircase that seemed to go up forever. Light filtered through cracks between the stones where the mortar had crumbled to dust and blown away long ago and created a dim, shadowy glow. I made my way to the top of the stairway and found myself in what was obviously the building’s only real room.
A lone flickering candle stood on a table beside a rusted wrought-iron bed; apart from the light creeping in from between the stones, it was the only source of light in another windowless room. Flecks of snow were gathering in tiny piles beneath the cracks; it occurred to me that there was no heat source to be seen, yet the room was vaguely warm.
Carefully, I picked up the candle and held it high so that I might see the room more fully. No pictures or mirrors nor any other adornment graced the cell-like chamber. The covering on the bed was moth-eaten and thin. Tucked under the cover’s edge was a talking doll with a string in her neck and a tattered stuffed animal that may have once been a Pink Panther. The doll’s string lay in a pool under its head; she didn’t talk anymore.
The sight of the broken doll and filthy toy tucked so carefully under the threadbare covering twisted my heart and I turned to see what other things might be in the sad little room.
Shadows bounced off the rough stone walls as I turned with the candle in my hand and I nearly cried out when I spotted the chair.
I reached out to touch it, beyond being repulsed by the years of grime that now covered what was once attractive green upholstery. Batting escaped from numerous tears and holes and no doubt tiny creatures made their home inside of it.
Another small table stood beside the chair and on it laid a pile of much worn papers with what appeared to be childish scribblings on them. I put the candle on the table, knocking off several stubby crayons, and picked up the papers to look more closely at them.
My hands shook. Tearing my gaze from the drawings on the papers, I looked slowly around the dim room and my whole body began to tremble. My breath caught in my throat as the light sound of footsteps penetrated my frozen brain and a dozen crayon drawings of me drifted like the snow slowly to the floor…..