The Hotel with the Blue Windows

I

When she first came to the hotel, the window frames had been newly painted and the stench of fresh paint hung around, impossible to mask. Everything else was newly painted too. She was the first person to stay in that room, with its new springy bed, pure white bed linen, as yet unmarked with stains, and cheaply framed reproduction prints hanging on the walls.

It wasn’t perfect – the shower leaked, the bed was creaky, and the room was stuffy and airless. But she had stayed in worse places.

II

The paint on the windows is flaking now, peeling away as it faces the elements. She is still there. She never left. The cracks are showing – not only in the paint, but everywhere, for the hotel is worn and run down. There are no other guests these days.

The blue windowed hotel does not admit them anymore.

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Misty Rememberings [prompt]

Early morning mist covers the lawns
as the sun comes up – blue skies
a bright day is promised.
The earth is scorched – it has been
warm, too warm and the grass
is brittle and crisp, brown now.
signs of the past
have been revealed
the earth peeling back, revealing
what is past
a garden once there,
foundations of a building that once
stood – long gone.
the heat reveals it all
strips back to the past
to what has been buried and forgotten –
it now lies on the surface
ready to be discovered.

II
It was a formal garden once
laid out and cared for by a team of gardeners
now it is just grass, the secrets
of the past have been long covered up
there is nothing to show –
but the past remains
to haunt them, long after it’s gone.

an old walkway long covered by water
stripped back to walk across again
a village buried and forgotten
now emerging from the water.
lost foundations and runways
echoes of buildings once there.

Salt Musings [prompt]

he stands by the water
early morning, alone
it is like glass
not a soul has stirred
these are the quiet moments
the golden ones.
It is already warm, the air
is still, calm
he listens, watches the gentle waves
hit the beach and retreat –
one
two
three
and then another set
it is music to his soul
a balm.
It is all he sees –
he is lost in the repetition, the methodicalness –
he owns it and yet it owns him
controls him
brings him back from the brink.

II
the storm rages.
he is gone now
the lonely figure
the waves beat at the beach
anger, power
beats down
hard
heavy
it doesn’t relent
the oasis is now a trap.