Written as part of an exercise in my Building the World class, the work below experiments with building a single room based on the stereotype of a faded sports star. The work below the line is the same room, described by an unreliable narrator (Someone who is biased in some way and cannot be trusted to give a truthful description).
The room was a shrine to nostalgia. Through afternoon light, dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight breaching the hallowed place, reaching in like adoring fans used to do; begging for an autograph, a chance to touch the champ. The floor, wooden and once polished to a spectacular sheen, was now rough and coarse in places, years of varnish peeled away in others like ancient skin on decaying bones.
The air was musty, smelling faintly of Mentholatum. It lingered, recalling days gone by, when aching muscles were a consequence of action and competition, instead of a cold wind or sleeping uncomfortably in a chair. Accompanying that bitter smell was the hushed smell of dust. It whirled through the sunlight, infecting every corner of the room with forlorn memories.
Along the wall hung posters, each heralding a triumphant clash of wills. All faded by time and neglect, their colours muted, the bombastic boasts silenced by the weight of years. They were joined by a punching bag. Heavy, leather and old, worn down through use. It now hung limply from its bracket, useless to the arthritic hands of the one who owned it.
A shelf graced the other wall, gathering dust like everything else in the room and displaying trophies and statuettes, all covered in an ever present blanket of neglect. They resonated with a melancholy that reached back from a better time. Even the newspaper clippings, tacked so lovingly underneath the shelf, were yellowed and curled but spoke of fitness and youth and vitality.
In the middle of it all, he dozed; a relic in a reliquary of his own making. A small, faded man. His face worn and wrinkled by time and a thousand punches. His hands, once strong and powerful, now nothing more than claws, warped by arthritis. He sat and he slept, dreaming of a boxing ring long ago and a young man who was somebody.
This room smelled old. As soon as I walked through the door, all I could smell was stale old, muscle gel. The light was very dim, as if this whole place was from an old movie or one of those vintage photographs. Everything was covered in dust, it coated all of the trophies and shelves like an old jacket. Posters lined the wall, ranging in age from really old to just plain old. They advertised fights and fighters I’ve never even heard of, much less care about. The old guys trophies sat on a shelf, I think they might have been golden once, but now they were the colour of weak piss and not very impressive.
He even had a punching bag in here, a huge one that looked black, but I think might have been brown. It looked like heavy leather. It hadn’t been touched for decades, I was tempted to go over and give it a smack, but I was pretty sure it would fall off if I did. Under the trophies, the old guy had newspaper clippings from his glory days. Catchy headlines that told of his wins and the power of his punches. Didn’t have any relevance to me, this guy couldn’t teach me anything anymore.
Speaking of which, there was the old guy himself. He was sat in the middle of all this crap, like a crusty king on a throne of dust. His hands were all twisted and looked like claws and his breath wheezed out of him as he dozed. He was tiny, not the guy I’d seen in those old film clips. It was as if someone had dropped him in a washing machine and shrunk him. The champ? Once, maybe. Now though, he was just a lonely old has been.