Morning all. I hope you are staying warm and out of the wind. Or rain, or snow, whichever you have. We have the wind/rain/sleet combo which is fun. And a reason not to go outside. So let’s start the day indoors with the morning writing prompt. Timers set to fifteen minutes and off we go.
I think I may have to spend a little time with this at lunch time. I just really like the set up.
Tuesday, January 7th: He stretched his hand towards the light.
He stretched his hand towards the light. There was a warmth to it, even though he knew the day outside was cold. He could tell from the stones. He spent enough seasons in this cell to know them by the feel of the stones. His cell was on the south side of the complex. In the summertime, the wall facing the sun warmed and even though it never grew actually warm it lost the icy sheen. For a time, the stones even dried out and he was able to lean against the wall. It may not have been warm but on those hot summer days the air was and the dry and still cool stones provided relief.
Today the stones looked not only damp but icy. He knew that if he were to touch them his hand would come away moist and cold. Sitting in the middle of the cell, the one ray of sunshine that pierced his window he could almost pretend he was sitting in a sunlit meadow. He held his hand in the light and as the sun shifted so did the beam of sunlight. He lowered his hand. There was one hour where sitting in this exact spot he could feel the sunlight on his face. He sat as the sun shifted.
Hands were lowered into his lap and he was still. Hie face was tilted towards the sun and it bathed his skin. He closed his eyes and imagined he was elsewhere. He imagined the scent of grasses and the feel of it on his skin as he moved through a sun dappled field. He could almost feel them tickling his hands as he brushed their tops while walking.
‘Butterflies,’ he thought. ‘There would be butterflies.’ He concentrated on them. He saw their wings flutter. They were more jewel toned in his mind than life could paint them. As every other hour of his day was filled with varying shades of gray he wanted the brighter tones if only to remember what color looked like.
In time the sun passed. It slipped from his face and then from his cell. He shivered with it’s passing and opened his eyes. The stone was gray, the shadows starting to slide in as the sun slipped past his window on it’s continuing journey through the sky. His clothes were a dark gray cloth, faded in places to lighter gray. The blankets he was given were likewise gray wool.
With the shivering, he stood and moved towards his cot. It required little movement. Merely standing, turning and sitting down upon the cot. His cell was only the width of his cot doubled. The length was the cot plus a foot’s span on either end. One wall held the sliver of window. The other held the door. It wasn’t often opened. It had a smaller door in the middle through which things were passed. Food and other oddities.
The food came three times a day to deliver food and then three times a day to collect the empty platter. These visits were how he kept track of time. His wall marked the days. He had no illusions that he would be leaving. But he wanted to track the time nonetheless. The small door opened once a month to give him something other than food. By his count today was the day of the month where such things would be brought and he found himself smiling at the unusual sense of anticipation and curiosity he felt.
Ten til Midnight 