This is a drabble (and potential story) I wrote because I wanted to try out a different writing style. Enjoy!
No one has ever liked that wallpaper. The wallpaper with the old Victorian-esc design that was crumpling at the edges and smelled like dust. It sat awkwardly upon the walls of the old house. It seemed out of place compared to everything else. Then again, everything in that room seems to be out of place.
The bodies of butterflies are pinned to the wall behind glass frames. Their lifeless forms on display until they turn to dust. An array of wings, varying in size and color, are scattered across the wall. It would be beautiful if they weren't all dead. One can't help but wonder how these butterflies came to be. What their life must have been like until it came to an end behind a glass surface. One might even wonder if those butterflies were still here, haunting the halls of the house, their wings once used for display now freed by the power of death. However, there they remain. In the room with the butterflies and wallpaper.
Pinwheels are scattered across the room. In pencil holders, bowls, any surface they can manage to stay up in. They had never felt the joy of spinning, collecting dust on the delicately folded paper. No pinwheel is the same. They all vary in pattern, size, and color, seeming to be strategically places so they compliment their surroundings. They brighten the room with butterflies, pinwheels, and wallpaper.
But, no one has been in that room for years. The door always remains closes and locked as the dust collects. In the mornings the sun shows thought he light curtains. No one like that room. The room with butterflies, pinwheels, and wallpaper.
"It doesn't feel right," they say when asked about it. The people who live in the big house in the woods. The house holding the room with butterflies, pinwheels, and wallpaper. "It doesn't feel right."
