In this one-page story, I try to write a story made up mostly of sensory details. Also, I play around with present tense. It’s an odd piece.
I’m in a long hallway. Behind me, it stretches further than my eyes can strain in the dark. Ahead of me, the light is too bright for my vision to penetrate. My feet feel heavy. My clothes are sticky, the collar of my shirt wrinkled and stretched, the skin inside my elbow and under my arms and down my side and between my thighs is sticky with sweat.
I call out, “Hullo!” in the dark, but the buzz from the light is the only response I get.
I take one step toward the light, but immediately, a piercing heat singes my skin, and the light nearly blinds me. I step back to my spot. So, I turn and step back into the darkness, but after a few steps, the light has faded completely. I can’t see my feet, my hands, or the floor. I get the sensation that the room around me is spinning, and the penetrating heat from the light has been exchanged for a sharp and icy headwind. I take a few more steps, but the cold would kill me soon, and the end is no clearer, so I return to my original position.
“Hullo!” I shout again, but again, the only sound I hear is buzzing of the light.
In that spot, in that very spot, I feel OK. It’s comfortable. It’s lonely and desolate, but I don’t feel the burn of the light or the bewildering cold of the dark. So, I lean against the wall and slide down, sitting on the floor with my knees pulled up to my chest.
“Can anyone hear me?” I ask.
“Who’s making that light? Can you turn it off?”
I know I can’t stay there in that spot forever, but I don’t know what to do. I thump the wall with my fist and call for a few minutes, but nothing. I can’t stay there forever.