Copyright – Rich Voza
Shit. The meadow, again.
The doorways loom.
Choices, choices.
The smell of smoke, of burning, of charring. The ebony handle, hot to the touch.
Not the Red Door. Not again.
A heavy weight tugs me toward the White Door, its gravity overwhelming. The White Door threatens, imposes.
Promises the empty brilliance of light.
The Blue Door loiters. The sound of the sea roars behind the rotting, barnacle-encrusted lumber.
Not again. My fists ache from pounding the hard dirt, just to smell the earth again.
Afflicting new wounds on my skin, I scratch and tear at myself, just to have control over my actions, even if only for a moment.
I roar at the heavens through sealed lips, although of course from here they cannot, will not listen.
The Blue Door, then. Trust your fear.
Water fills my lungs as I fall, choking.
Shit. The meadow, again.
Written for this week’s Friday Fictioneers photo-prompt, as well as for a couple of the BeKindRewrite prompts, Trust Your Fear and Sealed Lips. Thought I’d keep this run of horror flash going…
Tell me what you think, comments and criticism are always welcome!
chris white writes 
Dear Chris,
At what point will he pull up a chair and stop participating.
Aloha,
Doug
Dear Chris,
“roar at the heavens through sealed lips” that gives a sense of panic. A grim one this week. Ah the choices. Good job.
Shalom,
Rochelle
Seems to be a lose-lose-lose situation. Why choose a door at all if choosing only leads to misery?
🙂
He’s obviously trying to get somewhere, perhaps where he came from?
Real passion and tension in this piece. Nice.
Way cool. Sounds like he’s choosing every door but the one that will free him. Because as bad as each horrifying death and loop back to the meadow is, the harsh truth of the white door is even more terrifying.
At least that’s what I read into it. I could be completely off.
[…] Chris […]
I love this. Very “Twilight Zone.” I wondered if the narrator had already gone mad :).