PROMPTuesday

Sandiegomomma has today's PROMPTuesday, an exercise designed to spur creative writing. Today’s prompts are: “Hallway,” and “Will-of-a-wisp.” My entry is inspired by travel, and by memories of many past business trips, and many hallways.

The gentle muted bell of the elevator rang as the doors opened onto the sixth floor. The sign indicated his room was to the right. The plane had been delayed, and he had arrived at the hotel late, checking in with a tired, bored clerk in the deserted lobby. The dining room had been darkened, and a vacuum cleaner growled and fussed somewhere beyond sight.

The walls were covered with lime green grasscloth, and botanical prints of orchids and flamingos hung at intervals. The carpet was thick, green, printed with a trellis pattern and a border of tropical flowers. He headed toward the room, first passing an open door which spilled chill fluorescent light onto the lurid carpet, a humming ice machine within. Cubes clunked into an echoing reservoir deep within its guts.

The hallway stretched on for miles, punctuated by small alcoves where the doors to each suite were inset. He trudged onward, toward the darkened square of window at the end, marking the numbers as they ascended. The wheels of his luggage whizzed and clicked behind him.

The little paillette of light glimmered green as the keycard dipped into the lock, a tiny electronic murmur, and then the handle gave, opening into the darkened room.

It was quiet, and smelled a little stale. He furled the handle on his carryon, and went to the window. He pulled the plastic rods that drew the white gauzy curtains, and looked out. Beyond the glass, dotted lines of streetlights curved away, marking the cloverleafs of the expressway and access roads. Across the six-lane highway, a different hotel loomed, windows glittering and a colored plastic sign, just like the one here.

As he looked out, a blinking light slowly passed through his view, like a will o' the wisp. A traffic helicopter, reporting on the slow flowing current marked by the rhythmic pulses of red taillights.

He sighed and sank down onto the bed. It wasn't home, yet it was strangely comforting. It was his space, all his; safe and his alone.