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extremely rushed daily
You’re walking along the hillside when you see a peculiar sight. A small home, carved into its side. The door is a deep blue, rimmed by a circle of oak. An assortment of pots lay discarded outside, caked with dirt. On either side, two circular windows are carved out. Long grass obscures them from view, a cluster of vines creeping upwards. Leading up to the house, a small walkway, with silvers of stone, obscured by layers of moss and weeds. It is lined by sets of colorful flowers, overgrown and wild.
Inside, dressers line the walls, clothes spilling out from them like water leaking from a broken pipe. Piles lie unfolded, a sea of color stretching across the floor. To the far side, a kitchen, plates stacked neatly next to the sink. A small cabinet to hold spices, organized by color. Next to it, a circular table, decorated with a light blue tablecloth, embroidered with lilacs. At the center, a small glass vase holds a bundle of irises.
A long hall branches off from this main room, dimly lit by a few lanterns. You begin to walk down it, until you reach a smaller room. It looks to be a bedroom. In the center, sits the bed, covered in light green sheets. The walls are painted a dark purple, accented with gold around the edges. Posters hang from nails.
By the night stand, a small collection of mushrooms sits atop a wooden box. Curious, you open it. Inside, there are many different types of jewelry, from necklaces, to bracelets and rings. Many seem to be handmade, gold wire wrapped carefully around various crystals. You open a few of the drawers, but they are all empty.
You move onto the desk, which is overcrowded with different kinds of pens and pencils, and stacks of papers scattered everywhere. Off to the side, a candle burns, thin wick alight. It has a pleasant aroma, one that reminds you of sweet summer rain.
A small notebook sits open, displaying a half-finished drawing. A tall figure, holding a map in their hand, a traveler's backpack on their shoulders. Motivated by some peculiar urge, you reach for a pencil, grasping it carefully in your hand. Hesitantly, you press it against the paper, beginning to draw. As you allow your instinct to take control, your fingers sweep across the page in long, delicate strokes. You make yourself comfortable in the plush velvet armchair, leaning over your work.
(410 words)
You’re walking along the hillside when you see a peculiar sight. A small home, carved into its side. The door is a deep blue, rimmed by a circle of oak. An assortment of pots lay discarded outside, caked with dirt. On either side, two circular windows are carved out. Long grass obscures them from view, a cluster of vines creeping upwards. Leading up to the house, a small walkway, with silvers of stone, obscured by layers of moss and weeds. It is lined by sets of colorful flowers, overgrown and wild.
Inside, dressers line the walls, clothes spilling out from them like water leaking from a broken pipe. Piles lie unfolded, a sea of color stretching across the floor. To the far side, a kitchen, plates stacked neatly next to the sink. A small cabinet to hold spices, organized by color. Next to it, a circular table, decorated with a light blue tablecloth, embroidered with lilacs. At the center, a small glass vase holds a bundle of irises.
A long hall branches off from this main room, dimly lit by a few lanterns. You begin to walk down it, until you reach a smaller room. It looks to be a bedroom. In the center, sits the bed, covered in light green sheets. The walls are painted a dark purple, accented with gold around the edges. Posters hang from nails.
By the night stand, a small collection of mushrooms sits atop a wooden box. Curious, you open it. Inside, there are many different types of jewelry, from necklaces, to bracelets and rings. Many seem to be handmade, gold wire wrapped carefully around various crystals. You open a few of the drawers, but they are all empty.
You move onto the desk, which is overcrowded with different kinds of pens and pencils, and stacks of papers scattered everywhere. Off to the side, a candle burns, thin wick alight. It has a pleasant aroma, one that reminds you of sweet summer rain.
A small notebook sits open, displaying a half-finished drawing. A tall figure, holding a map in their hand, a traveler's backpack on their shoulders. Motivated by some peculiar urge, you reach for a pencil, grasping it carefully in your hand. Hesitantly, you press it against the paper, beginning to draw. As you allow your instinct to take control, your fingers sweep across the page in long, delicate strokes. You make yourself comfortable in the plush velvet armchair, leaning over your work.
(410 words)