1lMaM
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daily 22 (?)
444 words
The hobbit hole sits, calm and content, in the setting sun. Its leaf-green door is ajar, the paint starting to peel, hanging on its rusty hinges. There are two round windows on either side, light drifting into the hole. Animals scurry away as I stroll towards the hole, fruit and firewood in a basket. I push open the door and walk in as it swings behind me.
Inside the hole, there’s a room with a round dining table, two fabric stools, a small bench and a fireplace. The ceiling is barely taller than I am. I place the basket on the table, taking out the limes and putting them in the cupboard in the right corner. Gathering the firewood in my hands, I set it next to the fireplace.
A rocking chair rocks gently in the corner, wind blowing the door open and into the room. Closing the door, I sit on the rocking chair, listening to its light creaks. The walls are straight up until they hit the rounded roof. The green fabric of my rocking chair is soft under me, this gentle feeling of comfort, of home.
To my left, between the table and the bench, is a doorway as round as the front. It’s lined with beige-painted wood, a stark contrast from the dark mahogany of the walls and ceiling, and the black walnut of the floor. I get up from the rocking chair and enter the room.
The room has a higher ceiling than the main room – not by much, but enough to feel more spacious. In the corner is a single bed with a frame that looks to be made of branches and logs, covered by a sheet with a leafy pattern on it. A silky oak desk is pushed against the back wall, covered in pens, pencils, and books of varying sizes. One is splayed in the centre, a page half-written, a pencil in the dip between halves. An old chair is tucked in the corner closest to me, only there for moments like this, moments when all I want to do is relax.
So I sit in the chair, lean back, and study the room: the specks of dust, glinting from the light wafting through the window, the empty space where this chair normally fits in front of the desk, the wall behind the bed, packed with books, the clothes chest under the window, against the left wall. As I sit, the light from the frosted window slowly fades, fading into pink, then purple, then nothing. I walk into the main room, light the fireplace, and grab the limes from the cupboard. Dinner is on its way.
444 words
The hobbit hole sits, calm and content, in the setting sun. Its leaf-green door is ajar, the paint starting to peel, hanging on its rusty hinges. There are two round windows on either side, light drifting into the hole. Animals scurry away as I stroll towards the hole, fruit and firewood in a basket. I push open the door and walk in as it swings behind me.
Inside the hole, there’s a room with a round dining table, two fabric stools, a small bench and a fireplace. The ceiling is barely taller than I am. I place the basket on the table, taking out the limes and putting them in the cupboard in the right corner. Gathering the firewood in my hands, I set it next to the fireplace.
A rocking chair rocks gently in the corner, wind blowing the door open and into the room. Closing the door, I sit on the rocking chair, listening to its light creaks. The walls are straight up until they hit the rounded roof. The green fabric of my rocking chair is soft under me, this gentle feeling of comfort, of home.
To my left, between the table and the bench, is a doorway as round as the front. It’s lined with beige-painted wood, a stark contrast from the dark mahogany of the walls and ceiling, and the black walnut of the floor. I get up from the rocking chair and enter the room.
The room has a higher ceiling than the main room – not by much, but enough to feel more spacious. In the corner is a single bed with a frame that looks to be made of branches and logs, covered by a sheet with a leafy pattern on it. A silky oak desk is pushed against the back wall, covered in pens, pencils, and books of varying sizes. One is splayed in the centre, a page half-written, a pencil in the dip between halves. An old chair is tucked in the corner closest to me, only there for moments like this, moments when all I want to do is relax.
So I sit in the chair, lean back, and study the room: the specks of dust, glinting from the light wafting through the window, the empty space where this chair normally fits in front of the desk, the wall behind the bed, packed with books, the clothes chest under the window, against the left wall. As I sit, the light from the frosted window slowly fades, fading into pink, then purple, then nothing. I walk into the main room, light the fireplace, and grab the limes from the cupboard. Dinner is on its way.