A Red Tablecloth

Inspired from a prompt in Stephen King's novel, On Writing.

A chair is toppled over as I walk into the dinning room; broken china glistens in the silver moonlight coming through the broken window. The deep scarlet tablecloth is hanging limply off the side of the highly polished wood; blotches of black are randomly thrown about the table; spilled wine, or perhaps something more gruesome. The white taper candles lay on the scarlet, knocked over, halfway gone. White for innocence, something this room no longer holds. I slowly make my way around the large round table, lacy designs cut into the fabric of the silken napkins. I reach out for one, cold, cold like the white snow, like the color it proclaims. I drape it over the back of the kingly chair, lion paw armrests curve downward, commanding all to bow in its presence. The cushioned seat is stained with the remnants of wine and arsenic, the king is halfway fallen, draped like a piece of fabric over the lions paw. I chuckle, it’s better to die of poison, unknowing of what is happening rather then receive a bullet through the head like the other guests received. Anne lays crying in pain next to the broken window, I missed when I shot at her head, I only grazed her temple. In the moonlight I notice the craving knife for the evenings meal lying on the wooden floor. I bend down and pick it up, approaching Anne I whisper; “You shouldn’t have put up a fight.”

 

 

Reviews

[Emma Ruth]

Really well written and an enjoyable read :) Not what I expected from the first few lines, which is good - definitly kept my interest!

[Coyote Poetry]

A very interesting tale. I wanted to read and know more. I like the feel of danger and the bad situation. The strong description create visions of someone holding anger and ready to do great damage. Thank you for sharing the excellent story.
Coyote