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Wednesday, May 20, 2009

The Yellow Room by KA Kinrade

The Yellow Room
There is a room, and in the room a chair sitting broken in the corner. There are no doors, and the ceiling is very high, too high to reach without a chair.
On the ceiling is a window, offering a glimpse of the sky. The walls are yellow- deceptively jovial – mocking the limited confines of the space.
In the center of the room stands a woman, holding one leg of the broken chair. She wears nothing but a small silver chain around her neck, which holds a key. A key to a door that once was but is not more. The woman stands on her toes, stretching to full height, her abdomen lengthening, her legs are taught, her arms are hyper extended. In her outstretched arm she holds the small piece of wood that was once a chair.
She tries in vain to touch the end of the wood to the window, to shatter the barrier between her and the sky. Between her and freedom. The woman, mustering all her strength, jumps as high as she can and thrusts the wood into the window, shattering it.
The glass falls like rain in a cascade of shards around her naked body, butting into her pale skin. Drops of blood form on her face, arms, breasts, feet… The blood, alive and free from the trappings of the body, flows down her skin like tiny crimson rivers just released from their damns.
The woman looks at her body and then looks at the window. She hears the sound of thunder as raindrops fall into her room, mixing with the glass, blood and sweat on her body.
She sits down under the window, he body crushing the glass on the floor. She feels the pain and revels in it, as she does the cool, cleansing rain. She allows the pain, and the blood, and the rain, to wake her up, to remind her that she is in fact alive.
And so she sits, under the window, in her yellow room, with pools of watery blood forming around her body as she waits for the sun to come again.


  1. This is different, I like the feel of it.

  2. Thank you. What feeling do you get from it?