Beneath the Cloth

This was one of our early tasks on the OU Creative Writing course A174. We were asked to describe three things in a room and then expand upon them. I promise the additional items were merely part of the fictional development.

                  Antiquarian books, with fine bindings, peeped from behind the detritus of life. Their forgotten stories echoing dreams that once lived here. Large empty photo frames leaned against the wall, undusted, untouched; anticipating visits that never happened. The stench of something more than dog shit ate into Simon’s nostrils, and throat. And there it was. From the table, papers spilled onto the floor where they were stuck with dried blood. Just visible, under the long chenille cloth a hand stretched: the fingers predated.