It used to be a happy place, a place full of laughter and noise and life. Daily rituals took place in these hallowed halls; rituals that sustained an existence and added a purpose. It was a place of balance, one that made sense from hour to hour, day to day. There was an everyday rush that was necessary to maintain a rigid schedule. The ebb and flow of the daily routine made for a neat checkerboard pattern, orderly yet as chaotic as the pieces when they jumped across the board to be crowned. Goal achieved, and the day begins.

Now this place is just a shell of its former self, the wonder and warmth long gone like its former inhabitants who disappeared boldly in broad daylight amidst the tears and tugging heart-strings of the inn keeper who lamented her loss but knew it was inevitable, wishing her tenants well, safe travels, yet desperately offering a place to rest their weary heads if the time for safe homecomings or a respite from the drudgery of life outside these doors was needed. It is the beginning of the end, the start of quiet, as the evolution of Gone takes hold.

Not much is left in the tenants’ wake except solitude and despair. There is an occasional scuffle of a lonely cat chasing frolicking dust bunnies simply to pass the time, or the whine of a forlorn dog who refuses to adjust to the silence. No ears get scratched or ball gets tossed in the new order of Gone. The lonely cat and forlorn dog find comfort in each other’s company yet remain as disgruntled as the woeful inn keeper.

The rooms are begging for company as the front door patiently waits for a solitary visitor. They are surrounded, no encompassed, by the infuriating silence in this new age of Gone, and they wallow in their pain and suffering. It’s not a lifestyle they imagined or envisioned, and certainly not one to which they aspired. Begrudgingly, it is becoming a way of life.

The morning unravels slowly, with no purpose, no energy, no zip. The kitchen doesn’t bother to wake up; it is adjusting better than the rest of the Forgotten. But still, deliveries are received, and calls accepted in an effort to return to normalcy. The world outside isn’t affected as strongly by the presence of Gone. The world beyond the doors of the inn is better equipped, stronger, more resilient. Perhaps those left behind will see this example and learn to be resilient too.

The evening stretches out more painfully as daily schedules that typically cause fatigue never happens. At a loss for activities to keep idle hands and sorrowful eyes busy, the night descends quickly, and the inn keeper is resigned to the fact that another day of Gone has passed, as lonely and as still as the one before.

How dare Gone come to this exuberant abode and take hold so soundly, assuming its place as a permanent guest! Why can’t it be temporary? Why does it have to last so long? Why can’t Gone simply go?

*Last spring I was given an assignment in my creative writing class to write about either a utopian or dystopian society.  The topic perplexed me until about 1 am the night following class. I woke up and feverishly drafted my version of a dystopia.  It seems like a fitting time of year to post it.