A Quick Sketch

At least one person thought the opening words and story in my July 8 post were my own. They didn’t recognize the lyrics, and only realized the story was from a song after reading my explanation. If anyone else “fell” for that, I apologize. I didn’t mean to pass the words off as my own; I thought the lyrics were well known enough to be recognizable at least by the third paragraph.

So, as penance for that appearance of plagiarism, I offer this original prose sketch. This isn’t a full piece of work, by itself. Think of it as an illustrator’s concept drawing of a single scene.

* * *

The corridor stretched before him. Ancient, brittle bricks made the walls, floor, and ceiling. His footsteps did not echo, but merely died in the dirt and dust. He closed on his goal. It was behind the small wooden door far down the hall.

Something behind that dark portal called to him. Summoned him. A great light beyond the door escaped between the valve and its frame. Shadows broke the glow and moved about.

He quickened his pace. He knew he must reach the light. Not why, only that he must bask in its brilliance.

Now he ran, chest heaving and arms flailing. The sound of his breathing and footsteps dissipated between the cracks in the walls.

Instantly he arrived at the door. It seemed to breathe. No, it wasn’t breathing, it was speaking. It commanded him to open and move beyond it. His hand seized the cold metal knob and opened the door in a quick, jerked motion.

The light blinded him momentarily. He rubbed his eyes, blinked, and finally focused on the object beckoning him.

The light had faded to a dim, fluid glow. The room was a small, bricked chamber. In the center stood a rickety wood table, covered in dust. On the table was a small, glass orb. The glow came from the ball. It looked as though it had just been polished, for no dust coated its surface.

He did not remember approaching the table, but he stood mere inches from the glowing sphere. He gazed into its depths.

Faces. He saw faces. Pale faces contorted in gruesome expressions. The glow began to pulse. He must hold this orb. He must feel it against his flesh. He must feel its weight in his hands. What was it? He did not care. All he knew was that he must have it. Or must it have him? Again, he did not care.

He surrounded it with his hands, but he did not yet touch it. His palms became warm and moist. The glass ball played with his emotions of possession. Greed. Desire. Other feelings he had never experienced. He must touch it. He must. He had no choice.

He touched it.

* * *

There. An original prose sketch. Not as evocative as The Eagle’s story, but hey, I’m not insanely talented nor tripping on large doses of cocaine. Heck, I’m not even on Cap’n Crunch tonight.

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com