This Room

            An aged, suited man stands alone at the entrance. Opening the door, he does not necessarily smile but nods to each of us as we enter. Already the colors of the outside, although dark and dreary, have faded away into this world of blacks, grays, browns, and whites. The only sources of color are the strangely patterned carpets that line the small building. Dozens of small wooden chairs are scattered throughout the hallway, their cushions matching the carpet beneath them. The hall is so quiet that we can hear the soft rain topping against the glass doors and windows. We exit the hall and enter the room.
            The strong smell of lilies strikes me like a wooden bat being swung into my abdomen, forcing me to pause and clench my stomach. My fingers glide over the freshly pressed shirt I just bought yesterday. I hate the feeling of new clothes against my nervous skin, especially when they have been ironed to the point of immobility.

             Looking up from my button-up black shirt, a storm of faces floods my eyes; some familiar; some new; some old and nearly forgotten. Although I have only just stepped in the room, it has succeed in draining almost ever ounce of energy from my tired body and leaves my in a dull haze of exhaustion and calmness. Without noticing, I begin to amble through the mass of bodies and stare off at the wooden surroundings. Chairs with gleaming brown leather line the space of the room, some taken. Others remain vacant, waiting with promises of comfort and repose for their empty cushions to be filled. Dim lights beaming from the ceiling make the leather take on a dismal glaze. The strangely patterned carpet from the hallway seems to have followed me into the room, but cannot supplement for the depletion of color the room strives to achieve.
            The room seems to absorb me, beckoning me further and further into its stead. Lit candles positioned all around the room on small desks and tables and candle stands that jut out from the dimly colored walls cast oddly shaped shadows upon differently shaded green tokens. Flower arrangements and offerings of the Irish persuasion border the back wall as if anticipating the participation in some grand ceremony or festival. Through the steady sobs and hushed whispers, short bursts of laughter bleed through and generate more unease in the already tense air about the small room. And through this mess of noise, the lyrics of a familiar tune are heard by those who bother to listen:
                        Amazing grace, how sweet the sound
                        That saved a wretch like me…
                        I was once lost, but now I’m found
                        Was blind, but now, I see.
            These words play through my head over and over again like the chiming of an old grandfather that refuses to accept its oncoming death. The song adds to the somber mood set by the room. It sends a rush of emotions and feelings through all. A feeling of incompletion. A need to be close to someone.
            The room is never silent and I have only been here a few minutes. Coming to a slow stop at the back of the room, I kneel down on a carpeted step. The wood is a dark mahogany color; the padding inside is a pale pearl white. He is wearing one of his best suits, black. I place the note I had written for him inside aside a dozen or so other trinkets from others. The room performs yet another feat of magic: it makes tears begin to swell in my eyes. Getting up, I glance over the room again. Wooden chairs and flower arrangements; lit candles and soft music; the smell of lilies and the feeling of exhaustion and calmness. I never wish to enter this room again.
            I walk from the casket and add to the whispers that float about the room: Goodbye Pop-pop.

Reviews

[Michael X]

This story length has nice reader appeal. not too short, not too long.
A plus, the title drew me in. In the first line, these is a sense of smooth
undertaking and quality. I mean if I just read this random, i'd say i'ts one of
the better stories I've ever read. So breathtaking.

[SR Urie]

Hiya Meaghan,
Interesting write; the young girl displaces herself from actually recognizing the man in the black suit. She endures the smell of lillies and the somber old tune, "Amazing Grace," and finally brings herself to adress her grandfather who lies dead in the coffin of the funeral home, 'this room' that she emotionally refuses to recognize for its intrinsity and meaning; the death of her old 'pop-pop.'

Very morbid, and the story's negativity doesn't really sink in until the very last phrase. Excellent use of symbolism, departure of the setting's reality, and disregard of the girl's grief. Good job! I hope you can modify your obvious talent for telling of a difficult tale to more elevated and enjoyable, more happy circumstance. (you may want to use quotations marks when appropriate) What ever you do write from here, (I stress WRITE!), I’m looking forward to seeing more. BZ

[Frantzuu]

Great story, but I'd like to suggest something if you don't mind because I think it would add to your story. I find the I's repetitive in the story. Get rid of them. I had the same problem with my stories which I will fix later lol until someone pointed that out today.

For example: I glanced at the clock.
Becomes: My eyes darted to the clock.
I think it would add a little more taste to any story written in first person. Including mine. :)