"Box in the Attic"
Prompt 135, all_unwritten.
In the darkness of the attic, the dank mustiness of age and neglect, it sat. Tucked in a corner, lost in shadows of time and forgotten memories, was the box. Dark wood, clean, elegant silhouettes that must have charmed some elegant lady as she caressed it with perfect pale hands, feeling under her fingertips the elaborate carvings in mahogany, scenes of battles, of kings and queens and romance and deceit, of exotic and fantastic places.
It sits forever in the airy chamber, a high tower full of sunlight and sparkling dust motes, the light creamy wood underfoot radiant, a sweet contrast to the box's dark auburn. There are treasures held within, fine cloth and fragile china, and lost trinkets left by careless children. Around it are plants, flowers that yearn forever towards the sun, the saturated colors of energy and passion. There are lovers here, and maybe children; in the high corners of the room there are hung windchimes, hundreds of them, and they breed sweet discord in the breeze that enters through delicate open windows.
And there is singing, and there is sound, and there is harmony and discord and life and death and birth and before it there are lovers in the garden and they love one another in the sunlight--
It's raining in the attic.
The window, dark and dirty, is broken, and raindrops make their screaming descent into the attic like broken dolls, into the cramped, shadowed attic.
Worn by caressing hands and age and wear, there is are holes in the box and in it one raindrop, one fallen angel takes shelter beneath its lid, the carvings faded and the hinges rusted and tarnished
It falls against a single chime, cast away into its depths, and in the attic there is a single, stifled sound of discord.
In the darkness of the attic, the dank mustiness of age and neglect, it sat. Tucked in a corner, lost in shadows of time and forgotten memories, was the box. Dark wood, clean, elegant silhouettes that must have charmed some elegant lady as she caressed it with perfect pale hands, feeling under her fingertips the elaborate carvings in mahogany, scenes of battles, of kings and queens and romance and deceit, of exotic and fantastic places.
It sits forever in the airy chamber, a high tower full of sunlight and sparkling dust motes, the light creamy wood underfoot radiant, a sweet contrast to the box's dark auburn. There are treasures held within, fine cloth and fragile china, and lost trinkets left by careless children. Around it are plants, flowers that yearn forever towards the sun, the saturated colors of energy and passion. There are lovers here, and maybe children; in the high corners of the room there are hung windchimes, hundreds of them, and they breed sweet discord in the breeze that enters through delicate open windows.
And there is singing, and there is sound, and there is harmony and discord and life and death and birth and before it there are lovers in the garden and they love one another in the sunlight--
It's raining in the attic.
The window, dark and dirty, is broken, and raindrops make their screaming descent into the attic like broken dolls, into the cramped, shadowed attic.
Worn by caressing hands and age and wear, there is are holes in the box and in it one raindrop, one fallen angel takes shelter beneath its lid, the carvings faded and the hinges rusted and tarnished
It falls against a single chime, cast away into its depths, and in the attic there is a single, stifled sound of discord.