A to Z blogging challenge: X is for…xenodocheionology!

Whoops! A day late on this post but, as I was poorly yesterday (and still pretty gross today), I think I get a pass on that ;)

For my post on the letter X, I’ve decided to go with xenodocheionology. It’s funny that I’d know a word like that, but as luck would have it, I’d looked it up before. It means “a love of inns and hotels”. Hey, every day’s a school day (or, if we’re being French about it “Vous allez vous coucher moins cons ce soir…”*)

I dream about hotels all the time. As I might have mentioned previously, most of my dreams – frightening or otherwise – are about hiding from things. Zombie invasions, villains, hordes of unnamed things, people I know, soldiers, you name it. They’re not always scary dreams, but the key always is to stay hidden.

What could be waiting at the end of this hallway?

A lot of the dreams take place in hotels. Residential homes actually feature a lot as well (I had a great aunt who lived in one that was fabulous for games of hide and seek, so that might be where that’s from), plus halls of residence, but it’s hotels that are the most common (and, if one can rate dreams, the best). Old fashioned ones, new Travel Inn types, whatever. It doesn’t matter. With long corridors, blank walls, dark corners and the hushed hum of lifts (elevators) starting up, hotels are brilliant as a setting for tense stories.

The Shining is the story I tend to think of first, when it comes to hotels, but I’d love to hear of any more that are out there (leave a note in the comments if you can help!). I’m determined, at some point, to write something of my own – I just have to work on capturing that perfect, creepy transience that hotels embody so well…

What do you think? Why are hotels such a good setting for stories? How do they make you feel? And, most importantly, should I be forgiven for the late and rushed post? Answers below!

*”You’ll go to bed less of a fool for knowing that, tonight” – albeit slightly ruder.

Image by Ben Leto, used under a Creative Commons Licence

Nothing that is not there, and nothing that is

A blanket of new snow, soft and crisp and painted orange by street light. The engine rumbles beneath me as it idles, the heater only just starting to warm.

A young boy stands at the side of the road, hands by his sides and face to face with a snowman. A strange kind of creation, tall and thin, it narrows out towards the neck. No round head or friendly face, more a tower of tightly packed snow that tapers off into nothing.

I sit and watch through the fogged up windows. The road is quiet behind me, the snow untouched but for the tracks of my wheels. No footprints but those of the boy, whose small shadow stretches out behind him like silk. An echo of a question threatens to form before it drifts away again, out over the blanketed ground. This kind of snow swallows any sound at all.

As I sit there, watching the two of them, he begins to melt. It makes no sense at all; the temperature is still a few below zero. But he melts all the same, until the crooked, misshapen snowman is all that remains.

Photo by Flickr user Digital Sextant – used under Creative Commons

How the stars happen

As the sun rises, so do they.

Woken by something that ticks away inside them for all their endless lives, they curve away from slippery rocks, stretching out whisper-fine legs and tentative toes. The surface of the lake that lies still and silent in the dark; satiny black dimples as they skate out over the water, hunting for flashes of light far below.

Beaded eyes spy faint luminescence between rocks, and they sink, finding some way to float down through the crystal depths. Rising again like a seeds on a gentle wind, they break surface and totter back on to dry stone.

Picking their way up the sheer walls of the cave, they tuck needle feet into cracks and crevices, finding support for the little weight they have. Each one carries but a single light; progress is slow and unhurried. The sun arcs above the horizon, wheeling slowly over the Earth, and they climb, unknowing, in the cool blackness.

By the time they reach the open air, their energy is spent. The day is over, the sun is gone, and there remains just one thing undone. They release the tiny flares, caught way down in the depths, and watch with ancient, impassive eyes as they float up, and up, to be lost among the millions that went before them.

With no burdens left to carry, they topple gracefully, carelessly over the edge of the pit. Their souls almost emptied by the joy, the freedom of release, they drift down and down into indigo darkness, before settling on rocks by the side of a satin black lake.

This flash was inspired in part by Reminiscence, by Robson Borges. For more of his beautiful artwork, visit his website.

San Sebastian

He came above deck just as sun was setting.

The boat slid along the glassy violet waters of the bay almost silently until they found their way into the heart of the town. Harbour-side tavernas heaving with life threw out streaks of light but no undue notice was given to their arrival.

The air was warm, and thick with salt and spice. After a while, he opened the top button of his shirt and luxuriated in the breeze that swept over them just as it did the people who spent their lives there.

Andrés was waiting on the dock. For such a large man, he inclined his head with no small measure of dignity.

“Bienvenido, señor. Your arrival is well timed; we have the man ready to answer all of your questions.”

A quick glance at Andrés’s rolled-up shirt sleeves confirmed this to be the case. But the tavernas they had passed on the way in, with their fresh catch, had wakened his appetite.  A thin layer of sand covered the smooth worn stones on the landing, and he scuffed it thoughtfully with his shoe.

“That’s good news, Andrés. But I think I’ll have a bite to eat first.”

Andrés said nothing, but tilted his large head once more.

Sweeter dreams

Because we could all do with some sweet dreams.

Tethers loosed on heavy limbs
Sightless eyes that see
Soft breath like a tide.

Glistening crags
And ribbons of sky
Lying in cool salt

A waiting moon
Resting on its crescent
Admiring its reflection

Heavy in my arms
A cradle for my cheek
I wake to white cotton.

Night, bloggers. x

Silk and birch

I dreamt last night that I was winding my way through a forest of silver birch trees, tapping each slender trunk with the flat of my palm as I passed.

The ground was dark and mossy, and a heavy fog had crept in, flattening my vision until there was nothing but me and the tree I was touching, all alone in front of a silk curtain patterned with silver shadows. Like whistling in the dark, I kept walking forward, placing my hand against the resistant curve of each trunk before lifting it again and praying that I’d reach the next one before it, too, was nothing but silk.

East

“East? Nobody travels east any more.”

“Then let’s go east.”

She looked at him for a moment. The bridge was behind him, crouched in the mist like a giant. She had no idea if they’d even be able to get on it any more. She guessed it was as good a time as any time find out.

“Alright then. East it is.”

 

[based on a snippet of a dream and bulked out (a tiny bit!) with a photo from Visual Writing Prompts #7. Not sure if it's part of the same story as The Long Wait yet, but I think it might be.]

Sand beneath my fingers

After the suffocating, bleach-scented warmth, the slap of cold air on my face came as a shock. The tiles felt hard and gritty under my palms and being so close to the floor gave the room a strange, warped perspective, as though I’d been shrunk. I looked up at the underside of the sink, thinking vaguely that it could do with a scrub.

Through the hole, I could see the irregular curves of the hollowed-out cave.  From my position, nose almost on the ground, it looked surprisingly roomy. Deceptively roomy, I guessed. At the other side, just visible in the yellow lamp light, a smaller opening, framed by flat wooden planks. I knew the others were through there.

“We have to go. Like, now.”

She was crouched behind me, half turned towards the door. She was right; it was the middle of the night, but they kept strange hours in this place.

Ducking my head, I crawled through the gap and felt the cold sand beneath my fingers. Tracy followed straight after me, bumping me forward and reaching behind her to replace the grill. The clank of the flimsy metal was loud in the silence and I winced at her. She grimaced, her dark eyes bright, her face striped by the light coming through the grill.

I scrambled forward on all fours, my head almost touching the ceiling, the loose sand giving slightly beneath me and slowing my movements. Reaching the next opening, I found it much smaller than it had looked from a distance. Through the planks that lined the gap, I could see the curve of someone’s back, hear them arguing at low volume.

As steadily as I could, I pushed on the planks, which acted as a kind of barrier between this chamber and the next, widening the gap through which I had to crawl.  Never usually one for claustrophobia, I was surprised to find myself worrying that the roof of the caves would collapse, crushing us and ending any chances we had. The situation suddenly felt very real.

I ducked my head under the upper plank and placed my hands on the other side, ignoring the swell of fear that threatened to overtake me as I struggled through the gap.

Leech Road

“Doesn’t it bother you though, living so close to it? I mean, don’t you ever feel…”
“What?”
“Well, weird. Don’t you ever feel weird?”
“Nah, man, they don’t come out. Like, ever. They stay on there and keep themselves to themselves, pretty much.”

The truth was, I did feel a bit weird living in a house that backed on to Leech Road. Officially Beech Road, it had been lumped with the less attractive name when some brave soul stuck around long enough to scratch out the curves of the B. I guess it just caught on and, while the road itself was attractive – at least as far as anyone could see from the top of it – the new name suited the way it made people feel. Uneasy. Crawly.

You couldn’t see the road from the bottom of our yard and, although my room looked out over the back from the top of the house, the leafy beech trees obscured the road and its residents from view. As far as I knew, no one ever came out and no one ever went in. And yeah, while being so close to it did make me feel like someone was dripping ice cream down my back, I was willing to take the roll of nerves in my belly if it meant a big room in a beautiful house for pretty much next to nothing. And it did.

He was still looking at me, like he expected me to say something else. I pushed the sugar mill towards him, across the kitchen table.
“What?” I said.