Underneath the Dust

Posted: January 26, 2015 in Creative Writing, writing
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This is an assignment I had to do for my Creative Writing class. The assignment was to describe a room, and through that description the reader must learn, assume or understand something about the character who inhabits the room but is absent in the piece. Enjoy!

It was a quaint sized room. Small and confined not only by its size, but also the growing amount of objects filling the once open space. A dresser stood to the right of the door with partly opened, vacant drawers. The top of the dresser was stacked high with pictures of a man and a woman with vibrant smiles. The pictures were suffocated by the thick layer of dust that consumed the room. Next to the dresser was a desk. It appeared to be handmade by an unexperienced craftsman. The desk slanted sharply to the right, there was a small cupboard on the lower left side that had a door that was too small for its opening. There was an array of paint spatter on the top of the desk that could be faintly seen under the dust. In the right corner of the desk was a small, childish, crayon drawing of a car. There was no chair accompanying the desk, no papers or books covered the top.

A bed was pressed tightly against the left wall. The frame was metal, spray painted a metallic blue, but appeared grey as the dust too had made its home on the metal bars. A sliver of a yellow stained mattress could be seen through the piles of clothes, blankets and towels that spilled over the sides of the bed. It was a volcano of fabric ready to erupt at any moment. It was unstable and delicate. Every piece placed carefully as not to disrupt the fragile mountain.

The walls were an off white colour further distorted by the coating of dust that stuck to them like a second layer of paint. A single picture frame hung crooked on the left wall. The frame contained an image of a man, a woman and a small boy posing for a family photo. They were standing in front of a house, their arms wrapped around each other, smiling brightly.

The floor was a sea of musty clothes, shoes, toys, beads, newspapers, and an array of take out garbage. A lonely spotless path parted the sea of chaos that filled the floor. The path started at the door and lead to a small clearing just the right size for a single body. The clearing was placed directly in front of a bookshelf that reached to the ceiling. The bookshelf sparkled. Miraculously, not a speck of dust had settled anywhere on the dark cherry wood varnish. The shelves were straight and the base sat flat against the floor; it was a solid piece of craftsmanship. The moulding was filled with intricate designs of flowers, each one carved individually by artisan hands. Not a single book was placed on the shelves but a black leather journal lay neatly in the clearing. A piece of twine attached to the journal which attached to a pen. The journal and pen were both engulfed with the same layer of dust that had blanketed the room. On the very bottom left wall of the bookshelf was a poem burned into the wood,

To my darling,

may one day the words you craft,

be bound together and placed on these shelves,

for all eyes to read and all hearts to enjoy.

Love, M Jan 2, 1996

  1. Natt says:


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