At last, I have the possibility to write again. Or at least try to write again. Not quite daring to get back to my stories yet, a writing prompt is exactly what the doctor ordered. Right? Good thing I’m on that FWAR site, in the Flashers group, so I didn’t have to go searching for a prompt.
This was the picture of the prompt and here is what it inspired me to write:
The wood creaked beneath her feet, as she walked through the room. The old house was so quiet now, almost as if it was holding its breath, waiting for life to fill it again. She trailed her fingers over the crocheted tablecloth, the shriveled petals scattered around the lone vase in the middle of the surface. She willed the flower to regain its colors, its glory. It didn’t. The place was etched with memories, the stories that filled the place now hidden beneath a layer of dust.
Hesitating for a moment she stopped by the open fireplace, wrapped her cardigan a bit tighter, in a vain attempt to fight the chill engulfing her. She placed a few logs there; tore a page from a newspaper dated a year ago. The matches were in the corner, in the same place where they’d always been. She shook the box, just to hear them rattle, just like grandpa had always done. The memory made her smile. Flames soon devoured the last year’s news, and then began gnawing away on the dry logs. The heat did little to help the coldness within her.
She sat there, staring at the flames, listening to the fire crackle and let the memories wash over her. The good. The bad. The beautiful. The ugly. Emotions ebbed and flowed until it became too much to take. It was a bad idea coming here alone. She should’ve waited for the rest of the family.
Fuck it, she thought and stood up, strode over to grandpa’s cabinet and took out the bottle of old faithful Jack. Not bothering to get a cup she drank straight from the bottle. The whiskey burned its way down her throat, but failed in taking the edge off her anxiety.
She grabbed the bottle and walked over to the armchair grandpa always used to sit in. She sat there, in his chair, drinking his liquor, feeling like an intruder. An intruder in the house she had spent all her summers growing up in. An intruder in the house she had now inherited. An intruder in a place she hated, almost as much as she loved it.
Sighing, she pulled herself together. Enough wallowing, she told herself. He’s in a better place now, no matter how much it hurts to admit it. She closed the cap and placed the bottle on the floor.
She opened the curtains, bringing much needed light to the abandoned cabin. Dust swirled in the air as the house sighed; life had finally returned.
I really don’t know why I’m going with so sad story-lines for these prompts. Maybe next time I have to try to write a comedy.