Good morning all. I hope everyone is well rested and ready to face another day. I am feeling good and ready to get started actually. It’s a nice feeling. Of course as always I feel I have way more to do than I have time to do it, but that is just life. I had plot bunnies jump me in the night again and sink their teeth into my brain . Instead of venom they dripped a story line idea that I really want to take the time to play with. For now I just jotted it down, but it may be a weekend project. anyway, it is time to get started on today’s slate of activities, and we will kick it off with the morning writing prompt. Everyone ready? Fabulous. Let’s begin.
Interesting. I don’t know what I’d do with this, but it is interesting.
Tuesday, June 29th: Wind blew through the broken windows.
Wind blew through the broken windows. The tattered curtain fluttered in the breeze, the edges wiggling like fingers in the air. There was once a pattern to the cloth and darker outlines of what were once shapes could be seen in the weave of the remaining cloth. Once there was color too, but that long since faded. Now the curtains were sun bleached to off white with darker tannish spots showing where the pattern once lay. They were round, or round-ish. That much he could tell. Whether they were apples or peonies was anyone’s guess.
His brain cataloged the broken windows and he moved on.
The belongings were still in place, even after so many years left alone. Plates were in the drying rack, china in the hutch. Papers on the desk and books on the shelf. While time and the elements aged the items they were still recognizable.
‘Lack of humidity, I expect,’ He thought.
The air was bone dry and the dust filtering in through the broken windows was all dry sand. It accumulated in piles in the corners and created a textured surface across the floor, but there were no damp spots. If anything the house slowly dried out over time, the arid air stealing moisture from the items.
Papers were legible, but brittle from the drying process and he touched as little as he could. With careful measured steps he wandered from room to room. The floor was steady and secure beneath his feet. The first floor a level slab of concrete. He wasn’t certain if the second floor would be as studry, but once he completed his tour of the first, he carefully climbed the stairs.
The wooden steps creaked, but held and on reaching the second floor, he found the floor in good enough condition to hold him. Here it too looked as though a person stepped out, meaning to return soon. The beds were made in each of the four bedrooms as though awaiting their occupants. The drawers coughed dryly when he opened them, but once open he found clothes neatly folded and put away as though the laundry had just been completed.
In the bathroom toiletries were lined up and waiting. They had a fine layer of dust over them and he left them alone. In the shower a bar of soap dried and shrunk in on itself, becoming a small greasy stone. His brief inspection done, He descended the stairs once again. Leaving everything where it was, he walked back to the front door and stepped out on the porch. When he was told there was an abandoned house in the middle of his property, he expected a small shack, half falling down and possibly posing a hazard. He wasn’t expecting to find this. He found the abandoned Victorian splendor a little disconcerting.
Ten til Midnight 