A bit of fiction

I have an itch to write, but so frazzled with other agendas in my life, I could not think of a solid idea – I just knew that I was letting myself get rusty again, falling into the trap of letting teacher work get in the way of personal work (and development quite frankly).  Luckily I came across this prompt: show a dirty room without using those words.  Well, here it goes...

When my third entreaty to get inside was ignored, I decide to open the door and go in anyway.  This is easier said than done as I find resistance from the discarded bills, fliers, and other mounded collection of useless advertisements.  With a little more force, however, I manage my way in and immediately try to suppress a gag as my sense of smell does not need the same time to adjust as my eyes.

When the room does come into focus, my mind is racing to keep up, to take in how this place has changed in just a few short months.  The same pictures hang on the wall, but are now laden with dust.  This same film has also painted every other surface in sight.  I shudder to think at what the shag carpet is now housing.  I force myself to continue, creating a makeshift pathway through the once pristine living room, knowing I'll have to go all the way to the den to find him.  Most likely he'll be in that chair of his that has balded from use.  The closer I get to the den, the more the smell of rotting food and poor hygiene prick at my eyes and lump in my throat.

Once I make my way to the den, I fully take him in before he notices me, giving me time to see the greasy hair, the week old stubble, and the frail, arthritic hands clinging to a now tattered picture. I doubt those hands have really held anything else since she's been gone.  When his watery eyes finally meet mine, I force out a very thin, almost choked, "Oh, Dad."


[Okay, so I veered a bit from just the room, but I wrote; that is an accomplishment today.]