Waiting

 

A light flickers overhead, screaming silently and struggling to stay alive amongst its fluorescent neighbors. Its fight to remain aglow steals my attention briefly before gravity pulls my head and heart back to the box shaped room. With a crunch of bolts and hinges the inanimate steel guard swings open and a shadowy figure merges into the crowd, his slinking and pallid form remaining noticeable despite his obvious efforts to blend in with the gray monotony enclosing us.

The ceiling huddles over the floor possessively, capturing the stale, muggy odor of bodies drenched in nervous sweat. I cringe inwardly, feeling my stomach clench and curl underneath the barrier of my sweatshirt as the door closes and the surplus of light fades. I’ve let my brain sink into a harmless, neutral state, tricking my sub conscious into submission without a fight. A murmur explodes through the silence, a faint whisper sounding awfully close to my ear. I shift my languid limbs to subtly gaze at the intrusion, taking in a large pair of brown eyes, curious and hopeful. The body wilts upon seeing my accusing stare and it loses the gleam of faith. It has a name I’m sure but not one worth remembering at this exact moment. The tiny figure brandishes a scrap of paper clutched eagerly between sticky hands. I watch her unfold the fragment and lay it on my lap like an offer.

The sheet stirs faintly and the flutter animates the drawing in my imagination, bringing to life the scribbled butterfly resting on the lined paper. She smiles wide and pats the jumble of marker and crayon.

The door sways open for a second time, the gateway between the two worlds dragging in the metallic and rusty odor of cleaning aides and body fluid, mixing and swirling, triumphing over the feeble trails of bottled spring. The new faces are sunk in with exhaustion but their lips curve upwards, smiles of relief blossoming. They trudge over the worn beige carpet until they’ve reached the miniature mountain of clothing and books and belongings stockpiled in the corner.

With a sheepish grin the little girl stumbles towards them, feet scuttling to keep up with the rest of her body. Her sunny yellow jumper disappears underneath one of the accumulated jackets and then she’s jostled out the door, glancing back to wave at old memories. Her departure makes the room uncomfortable and hard to be distracted. There’s no more distant hope playing recklessly in the corner with a coloring book and crayons. I feel the corners of my mouth sinking lower and lower each time a person comes and goes, until finally it rests permanently in its eerie upside down state.

 A muffled tick is resonating from the seat across from me. I raise my eyes and glance at the mess of limbs protruding gracelessly and the awkward sighs they’ve managed to catch. The skeletal hand is toying with a thin metal canister, opening and closing, coughing and then opening once again.

Reviews

[ICE]

Wow! This is a well written piece of work.

"The ceiling huddles over the floor possessively, capturing the stale, muggy odor of bodies drenched in nervous sweat. I cringe inwardly, feeling my stomach clench and curl underneath the barrier of my sweatshirt as the door closes and the surplus of light fades. I've let my brain sink into a harmless, neutral state, tricking my sub conscious into submission without a fight."

I just love these lines...they say so much. Its just so effortless.
Great Job! I look forward to reading more of your work!
~Ice

[hhoosh]

This story is written exceptionally well, except the flowery prose actually takes away and totally jumbles plot and craft.

I know it's written well.
I don't know what it's about.

With narrative, it's not always about heavenly construction of words. Sometimes it really can help just to break from the prose, if only for one line, to explain/present the hard, actual happenings.

So... it was good? Your writing was, but not the story-telling.

[John Morris]

Wow, this was a really well written piece of work which had me clinging to the computer desk; very well done.