Writing Is Hard Work

Musings of a Hard Working Writer...

  • Roger Colby

Friday Flash Fiction: The Room

His eyes flicked open and he rose shakily to his feet, wiping some substance from his face that felt like grease from his cheek with the back of his hand.  He almost slipped on the slick floor, and in the dim light he could see his reflection faintly staring up at him from beneath his feet.  All he could remember was the soft sound of a low whir that flooded his hearing and then he was here.

Oh and there was a foul odor.

Somewhere in the distance, outside this large white room there was the sound of talking, chatter really, sort of a low mumble that was unintelligible to him.  He took two steps back, clearing the yellowed puddle of grease, and then his boots echoed on the hard floor, a sound of hard heels on thick glass.

He crouched down and spread his fingers across the hard surface.

It was glass, a thick lumpy uneven surface, and past his reflection he noticed that there was some kind of mechanism beneath it, a white plastic cog nearly three feet in diameter.

He stood again, careful not to slip in the grease, and that was when he noticed that the glass floor was actually a disk shape, perfectly centered within the four walls of this square room.  One wall seemed to be made from the same material as the floor and the wall directly to the left of that had a protruding panel with a grid of holes that were as big as his hand.  He walked slowly toward the wall, his boots clanking on the floor, and placed his hand inside one of the holes to discover that it was only a covering for something beyond in the darkness.  He peered inside one but the dim light from the glass wall did not provide enough for him to see anything other than an inky blackness.

Suddenly a noise from beyond the glass wall caused him to jump, to clatter across the glass disk and press against the back wall of the room on the opposite side.  The light coming from the glass wall grew suddenly brighter and he could now see beyond a black mesh screen on the other side of the wall which looked now more like a window and a pair of gigantic blue eyes peering at him.  He heard a deafening thunk and the glass wall hinged open on the right side and a large tubular object, its white wrapping an organic texture, was placed in the center of the glass floor with a heavy thud by a giant hand, the fingernails painted a delicate azure blue.

The door slammed shut again, and as the giant fingers pressed buttons on the outside of his room, each press sounding like the scream of a little girl, and as the odor of used grease transformed to burning ozone he realized that his life was at an end.

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