Creative Writing Collection

The Spirit Dorom

Inside and out, I am but wood. Made of a simple material, I am important. I keep the Winston family protected of unwanted guests and of the elements that are meant to stay outside.

       Yes, I am a door.

       I am beat day to day, but I do not mind it. It’s my job anyways, right? It doesn’t hurt — depending whose knocking.

       These humans — the Winstons — are strange people. I see at the front steps a girl selling cookies. And I for one know that Mrs. Winston doesn’t allow sweets. Yet she opens the door anyways, and must disappoint this small little being, who sadly walks to our next door neighbor.

       I might change my place about the house, but my post is to the front. The one of most importance that should be guarded at all times.

       I let them see through my eye to warm them ahead of time, but they never do. If I had voluntary movement, how much happier and safer would they be? How many times would I shut out that strange and vulgar male that daughter Winston is attracted to; how many times would Mr. Winston’s anger remain low if I could keep persistent services away; and how many times would I have kept son Winston inside to keep him from wandering? But now, it would have been far too late to save him.

       I do believe.

       Yes, I believe that some doors are meant to be closed.