The Shack

The old, dusty, worn-down shack was inviting to a couple of adventurers. It looked like it had been condemned. The old wood was wilted and cracking. It was the color of rusted night. A broken glass window next to what used to be the door, shone in the dying sun. it reflected hues of reds, bright yellows, and oranges. We walked up to the shack on a drought-stricken, dirt path. Dust kicked up all around us. It looked like a tiny dust storm. The dust storm around us caused a whooshing sound. It was calm, and had gentle qualities about it. We reached the old steps of the beaten-up shack and went on.

The creaky, unstable steps held, yet buckled under our weight. The dusty rail groaned as it aided us to our destination. Through the old, abandoned doorway, we stepped, to hear birds. Chirp chirp, whistle whistle. tweet tweet. Once inside the dark room, our eyes began to adjust to the darkness. The smell was unforgettable. It was breathtaking. It smelled of damp wood and dirt. Like earthworms and mothballs. My throat became dry, as dust climbed slowly into my mouth. We walked through a low-hanging doorway to our right.

This room smelled as though it might have been used as a kitchen. Deep in my mind, I pulled memories from childhood. Coming downstairs to breakfast. Each step brought me closer. Each step another breath. And each breath a whiff of soft, white bread, transforming, melting, into lightly, browned, sandy toast. Or sizzling eggs, that produced a sharp grease odor. Or frying bacon. Crackling and popping. Creating the smell of home. An unattainable stale breeze. But this wasn't mother's kitchen, and there was no breakfast cooking. the smells of the previous trip down memory lane, quickly disappeared, leaving the damp, stale, mothball odor.

We walked out of the kitchen and made our way slowly into what might have been the living room. A big picture window stared silently, lonely, at us. One end was injured with a crack, that allowed a slight breeze to come in. The breeze filled my lungs and crept up my nose. It tasted of sweet fall, and dying grass. He kicked at a rusted box on the floor which enlivened dirt and dust. It began to dance and move as it tickled my nose. Not thinking, I breathed in deeply, taking in some dust. It tasted dry, and sour, somewhat chalky. I sneezed violently freeing my lungs from the sticky, frantic dust. Snot and spit came with the liberation. My mouth now tasted of death. I brought forth from my pocket a buttery, caramel Worther's Original, that my Grandpa had given me. I popped it into my mouth and was instantly relieved. The dust was gone and sweet richness now replaced it.

The living room was the last room. There must have been an out house out back for taking care of business. We made our way out of the little, bright living room. I nudged the wall on my way out and found that the surface was smooth, yet bumpy in some places. It was chalky from being cover in dust. The walls were covered in a cheap, dull, wall-paper. It had little red triangles all over it. I rubbed my hand steadily over it. The lumps had been created by not smoothing the surface underneath. In some spots there was no wall-paper.

My fascination quickly left and soon I did also. We walked out of the abandoned door, and as we left, out of who knows what instinct, I reached up over my head and was snagged by a sticky, silky, spider web. It stuck to my fingers and hung there. Stringy, swaying in the breeze of the night. We walked out into the fading sunlight, and rejoiced. We then made our way back through the dust trail and then on into the night.