The Dove & Despondence

 Times stands still in a house like this. The grey claws back from the spackled walls, giving voice to disrepair. Whatever lived here once is long gone now. The stairs stand askance, a weak structure that leads to nowhere. All expectation of footfall is in the past. All that is left of life is a nook of upturned chairs, its shadows that dance against harsh lights. Enter here, through the warm wooden door, and leave all warmth behind.

Who goes there, out, in this cold? Eyes of crimson, so white of coat. Fluttering through the ramparts, a scion of light alights on the skeletal remains of the stairs.

"I will build my home here, away from the sun."

"Away from life?"

"A life away from a life. In these dark recesses, I am luminescence itself."

"The sane don't go building foundations in tombs of silence."

"And tombs don't come to life at the flutter of a wing."

"You challenge me?"

"So what if I do?"

"I've seen fancies wilt and people wither and die. Hope seldom lives in the Hour of Lead."

"What is the Hour of Lead, if not a waiting to be perceived?"

"What?"

"You are nothing unless someone says you are."

"You are an intruder."

"At least I am."

"And I am not?"

"You will be a place of rest."

"A place of grief."

"And life anew."

Author's Note

The first piece I ever wrote (and didn't hate) since I moved on. It's for a creative writing class I hated. First, she said describe the picture. Then add a foreign object. Then make two people talk.

It's not like me to like mediocrity. Guess I'm growing complacent. 

The two people in conversation are the dove and the spirit of the room. 

It's all been such a blur.