Creative Writing

DESCRIPTIVE WRITING

The Room

By Anonymous

Thunder rumbled all around. Torrential rain came hurtling down from the grim gray sky. Big droplets of water clung to the wooden window sill, oozing through the gaps and crevices in the rotting wood. Inside, drawers were overflowing like a flooded river. Thousands of loose sheets of paper littered the musty floor like a blanket of snow. Cobwebs dangled down from every nook, with flies wriggling, longing to be free. 

A row of fiery red ants slowly wandered across the jungle of mess, scavenging for any particles of food buried within the dust encrusted floor boards. A cockroach sprinted furiously across the once white dishes, now growing some sort of swampy green mold. Narrowly avoiding an avalanche of books, which came thundering down threatening to crush the rotting wooden floor, the clever cockroach made it to the crack in the wall, it called its home. 

A man, graying with age and wrinkly skin, tried feebly to wade through the clutter, as if wading through a marsh. As slowly and carefully as a snail crossing a leaf, he crawled through the chaos. With every careful step, the floorboards creaked and whined as if protesting the fierce weight of the large man. Suddenly, an aged board gave way under the immense weight it had to bear. The old man plummeted down through the shattered floor with force. The man quickly retrieved his leg from the gaping abyss and continued to wander to the far end of the messy room, just as thousands of wriggling insects emerged from the black gaping hole. Sprinting in all different directions, the brown beasts searched frantically for a new accommodation. 

A rickety off-white fan groaned from the far end of the room. Creaking, it turned its head and blew dust intermingled with dirt into a whirlwind of particles. The severed cable of the fan contained dull red, yellow and green wires which emerged dangerously as if threatening to impale any creature which dared venture too near. A spider unknowingly galloped towards the protruding wires and upon interaction, was burned to a crisp like a fly flying into a flame. The crispy black corpse shook and twitched until it finally rested in a fetal position. Tar-black ants aggressively ran to the body. With their dagger sharp pincers, they heaved the burned corpse back to their den situated underneath the musty, moss covered floor. 

As the rain came to a halt, the sun emerged brightly from the heavens as if it had just returned from a nap. Its rays breamed in through the cracked windows illuminating the dust- covered floor. Particles of dust and dirt levitated to the light like moths to a bulb. The drenched plants outside welcomed the sun as they smiled up at it in glee, absorbing the warm rays, reveling in its presence. The damp rotting wood delayed in deterioration as it was dried by the warm welcoming beams of light.

Untitled

By Lylah Wallbridge

A gray moth settles itself upon a rusted lamp post, its wings fluttering slightly before stilling. Vines intertwine amongst themselves, braiding their green tendrils around the battered post. Below sits a man, barely illuminated within the pale cone of artificial light. The street is dark and quiet, the houses somewhat hunched inwards, hiding their distorted selves behind white picket fences. The silhouette of a large maple tree contrasts against a fazed night sky. In the sky hangs a moon, which reflects in half crescents off the man’s freshly polished shoes. He wears a dark coat draped across his broad shoulders which crumples stiffly against the blotted tarmac. 

Within his hand is a knife. 

He lifts it up, examining the fine craftsmanship in the golden light. He stares in reverence at the crimson tides lapping against a glinting silver coast, the way a teenage boy would intently admire a beautiful girl twirling in the moonlight. Rain starts to patter down softly. The water slides down across his skeletal fingers, mapping each vein with the precision of a cartographer. 

The man sighs in bliss as the rain crackles against the freezing tarmac, and he hums a familiar lullaby. His eyes close and twitch rhythmically as a slight smile spreads across his face. His fingers twirl the coat fabric back and forth, mapping the moves like a bailaora spinning in a web of red fabrics. The smile widens, revealing a set of perfect white teeth which enhance the purple of his chilled lips. His humming breaks into a soft chuckle, but abruptly stops. He glances up at the darkened window of the house on Still Water Avenue – the house which he had only just walked out of. The window veiled a simple white cot which sat on a floor strewn with fluff, buttons and a soft cotton blanket still warm from her body heat. 

The man’s fingers become pale from gripping the knife too hard. He drops the weapon and mutters incoherently to himself. He hangs his neck low into the black coat’s elegant folds, shamefully staring at his reflection in a pothole filled with water. The man whimpers and tears slide down his smooth cheeks.

And he stays like that, sobbing in the murky light, for another hour or so, stuck in a mind flooded with rain and incomplete lullabies. 

Only when the rain has erased all the dark specks that once encompassed his lengthy arms does he rise shakily from the ground and pick up the silver knife from a waxy red pool. The man sighs miserably as he slides it into the gathers of his soaked coat, and steps out from beneath the muted spotlight.