The Room

So after looking through the pile of notes and papers on my desk I stumble across this old thing. I wrote it in a fit of thoughtfulness about life. It's shoddy, an early attempt at storytelling I know, but worth recording before being tossed.

You, and several other individuals walk into a room, passing beneath a doorframe with the words "Birth" etched on its fresh looking, pine-smelling wood. The room is plain, bordered by the mysterious and fathomless depth of shadows. The lot of you disperses into the small chamber, and the door seals shut behind you with a click. There's no turning back now.

The hiss of the air vents opening above draws your attention. A colorless, odorless gas has begun seeping into the room. You take your first breath since stepping inside, it is full and deep. You knew this would happen. You knew this before walking into the room. You know the gas is poisonous. You know you have ten minutes or so left to live after taking that first breath.

Inside the room, neatly arranged in the middle, are a few assorted objects. Various things, raw materials and some tools. There are not a lot of them, not enough for everyone in the room, but the materials are sitting there, waiting to be used.

So you have ten minutes to do something, anything or nothing. The objects sit, idle and offering themselves still. Shall you make something with that which was provided for you, or will you sit and bide your time? Will you assemble something useful, or will you just pick something up and bang at the walls with it? Will you bash your head in with one of the bricks sitting there, or will you stack it atop another brick, and another.

The minutes pass by apathetically. What shall you do? Have you even decided that you're going to create something? If so, what will you make? A gasmask, to stave off the effect of the gases for as long as possible? A bludgeon, to break down the door and escape out of the room? Something useful in the time being, like a table or chair to make yourself comfortable? Or... a sculpture? In less than ten minutes you will die. The next round of people to enter the room will deconstruct whatever you and your companions will have made, even your one masterpiece, for its raw materials so that they may make something for themselves.

But still, the sculpture, it existed. Even if nobody remembers it... the walls do. Or who knows, maybe its ruined sight will leave a mark on those to come in the future. Regardless, the sculpture stands alone, for itself. Or it would, if you choose to make one.

So what will you do? What will you build in your ten minutes? A mask, a table, a club, or a sculpture?

The gas is called Life, the room is called Existence.

Author's Note

I usually proofread my works, however as always I'm sure there are typos and syntax errors. I appreciate any and all notices of that, and will work to correct those. If I haven't do know that I did acknowledge your notice and try implementing it, but found that it detracted from the effect I wanted and so omitted it.

Reviews

[luthien7]

Not so shoddy - there is a lot to this write. Enjoyed it. Thanks for the read