Posted in Random things

The Hideaway

SO here’s the descriptive piece I wrote in English class.

~

It was abandoned long ago – that much is clear. The wood of the walls is rotted and soft, the whole structure losing it’s shape. Splinters break through where the last shreds of blue, fleur de lis wall paper curl and wave. The lamp, dangling from the ceiling, is smashed, oil still glutinously coating the bottom. The thick velvet carpet is riddled with jagged edges, and the last scraps of waterlogged maps and books pile sadly in a corner. Navigation equipment, heavy and encrusted with the passage of time, is pushed almost hastily into a drawer of the mahogany dresser, upon which the lacquer is peeling and bony white. Craters are eaten deeply into the sides of the wood, blue and green with age, and the matching chair, drawn across to the bed, is in a similar state, the spokes of the chair back snapped and scabbed.

 

The bed itself is iron and gold – rust where there was iron, curled with bright golden spires, for gold does not tarnish, even under the sea. The coverlet, thick and velvet, is worn thin over the worm-eaten skeleton, curled onto its side, weak-willed against the blue of the water that spilled through the iron-rimmed porthole high on the wall. The heavy crucifix over the bed has detached itself, and it lies forgotten in the slime of the floorboards beneath the bed.

 

It’s oddly cramped, a cabin so rich, and the tail of it’s discoverer is curled twenty feet long against the ceiling, arched against the floor. The flukes of his tail spread wide against the door through which he entered, placing him face to face with the corpse. His black eyes, the size of a child’s fist, reflect the greenly moldering teeth. White hair, clouding softly in the sway of the water, is cast in the turquoise light filtering dimly in from the porthole. Deep blue scales, each the size of a baby’s fingernail, chase each other up the long, long tail and end thinly coating his forehead, his cheeks. They reflect tiny specks of underwater light onto the walls, the coverlet – glittering shimmer fills the room almost as solidly as his tail does. The fibrous membrane between each finger is thin but unyielding to the water, his hands big enough to handle the old skull as though it were an apple.

 

The ship is home. Here it’s safe, and quiet, and dark. Just visible beyond the porthole is the black, rocky wall of the bottom of the abyss.

 

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Author:

All my friends are dragons.

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