Drabble for Museteasers Prompt #1872
museteasers prompt here
This is a continuation of my drabble for this prompt, though the connection seems rough. I might polish them someday though. ^^
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Moths danced in the corners of his eyes as he swept the hall's marble floor. He imagined that the moths were actually specks of the white dust that he swept day in and day out; dimly he remembered that dust was supposed to fill the air while one sweeps a dusty room, though he couldn't say how he remembered. He was just a servant of the old man who sat muttering in a carved oak chair on a dais. His life did not extend beyond the Hall of the Moth. If he'd had a life before coming there, he wasn't sure; there was a blank spot in his mind where his memories used to be. Sometimes, while trying to remember a place beyond the hall, he imagined seeing charred edges and a string of lights in rows of three. He found himself thinking of the image a lot whenever he felt tired, or hungry.
"Servant!" called the old man. "Come. I require refreshment."
He put away his broom and picked up an ornate candle in the storeroom beyond the dais. Its wick lit up as soon as he held it under the old man's nose. The old man breathed deeply of the sweet-smelling white smoke, then waved him away.
"Put that away now. Don't forget to take a whiff of the stuff before the wick burns out, do you good." The old man's sharp little eyes watched him closely. Without a word, he sniffed the white smoke until the candle went out.
***
Moths danced in the corners of his eyes as he lay on a rug at the foot of the dais. He did not dream; his sleep was always one long pause in between one set of tasks and another. Sometimes, before losing consciousness, he wondered what the world was like outside the Hall of the Moth. He seldom remembered those thoughts, save for the image of a flame eating away at a moth's wings.
This is a continuation of my drabble for this prompt, though the connection seems rough. I might polish them someday though. ^^
---
Moths danced in the corners of his eyes as he swept the hall's marble floor. He imagined that the moths were actually specks of the white dust that he swept day in and day out; dimly he remembered that dust was supposed to fill the air while one sweeps a dusty room, though he couldn't say how he remembered. He was just a servant of the old man who sat muttering in a carved oak chair on a dais. His life did not extend beyond the Hall of the Moth. If he'd had a life before coming there, he wasn't sure; there was a blank spot in his mind where his memories used to be. Sometimes, while trying to remember a place beyond the hall, he imagined seeing charred edges and a string of lights in rows of three. He found himself thinking of the image a lot whenever he felt tired, or hungry.
"Servant!" called the old man. "Come. I require refreshment."
He put away his broom and picked up an ornate candle in the storeroom beyond the dais. Its wick lit up as soon as he held it under the old man's nose. The old man breathed deeply of the sweet-smelling white smoke, then waved him away.
"Put that away now. Don't forget to take a whiff of the stuff before the wick burns out, do you good." The old man's sharp little eyes watched him closely. Without a word, he sniffed the white smoke until the candle went out.
***
Moths danced in the corners of his eyes as he lay on a rug at the foot of the dais. He did not dream; his sleep was always one long pause in between one set of tasks and another. Sometimes, before losing consciousness, he wondered what the world was like outside the Hall of the Moth. He seldom remembered those thoughts, save for the image of a flame eating away at a moth's wings.