The moat is small—jumpable really—it’s not meant to keep out armies. It’s meant to shield from something, as if years of attack on the house has caused its owner to put up a barrier. But the bridge is innocent enough—cute, wooden and painted white with little flowers carved into the railing. And everywhere there’s grass. Nothing fancy, no flowers or trees, just grass.
The house itself is basic and cold. Is anyone there? There’s a trap door. It’s not hidden, it’s just there, beside the fridge. I’m terrified to open it, but I do. A warm orange light fills the room. Laughter and song float up from below. But I can’t go down. I don’t fit. I can’t fit through the trapdoor, nor the tunnel beyond. I dangle my legs down and feel the warmth on my feet, but I can’t go any further. I gaze at the half-lit room around me and notice the darkness beyond. It creeps closer to the warm glow and I fold myself down into the tunnel. The darkness closes in and I cringe away.
The trapdoor slams shut above me.
I am trapped between warmth and coldness, light and dark. Stuck here in this tiny space.
Where I belong.
Writing prompt: Meditation in Archetypes and Imagery class in which we were told the following-
You are at a crossroads. You choose a path and start walking. There is forest all around you. The forest is dark. The path starts to disappear. Then a clearing opens in front of you. You go closer and open the door. You look around.
(Author’s note: as soon as our teacher mentioned that the house is meant to represent us in some way, I actually face-palmed. A moat and a trap door!? I’m sure someone could write a thesis on me. It was interesting writing the story exploring that though~)
C J Cleghorn 