I'm currently writing a novel called "The Escape Game" and with the help of some of the users here, I got out of a writers block. Let me know what you think about what I have written so far.

Question

I'm currently writing a novel called "The Escape Game" and with the help of some of the users here, I got out of a writers block.  Let me know what you think about what I have written so far.

k_lynn · Answer

I'll get my story up as soon as I can.

k_lynn · Answer

http://www.copyrighted.com/copyrights/view/we5a-sxq9-z7td-j6pr ">

http://static.copyrighted.com/images/seal.gif " /> Copyright- 4be66fc5ffbf58db39aa41178ae2babe91fe9c6e5aeb295d4311692dffaed267 I feel a constant throbbing in my head. My eyes open and I sit up and try to rub the sleep out of my green eyes. But instead, I end up running my hands through my hair, rousing it even more. A brown lock of it falls over my eye. With an annoyed sigh, I push it out of the way. Without thinking, my hands throw the covers off of me and I stand up from the dull colored cot I was just sleeping on. There are two light bulbs in the entire room. “About 17ft. by 10ft.,” I think out loud. I snap my head around, suddenly alert. My brain searches for a possible reason how I know the measurements of the room, but find none. I know I’m right, but how? A small desk with a lamp happens to be by the cot. Rummaging through the organized drawer, I find what I am looking for. A ruler. Even though I know my estimates are right, I measure anyways. Yep, 17 by 10. Marching over to the desk to put the ruler away, I stub my toe on the corner of a stove. I grimace and a wave of pain shoots through my foot. Just beside a gas stove, are a refrigerator, a counter, and some cupboards filled with plates, bowls and cups. A little card table is set up near the kitchen and tucked under it is two chairs. Adjacent to the kitchen are two doors. I suddenly became aware that everything in the room, including the walls, are either a gray or dullish tan. But something about those doors, 3ft. Long and 6ft. tall keeps nagging at me. So instead of putting the ruler away, I set it on the countertop and walk slowly toward the doors with my head wingspaned to the side and eyebrows furrowed. I close my eyes for a moment in concentration and try to think about what is behind the doors. I open my eyes. I am face to face with my reflection in the door closest to the right. Without thinking, my right arm extends, reaching for the gleaming brass knob. I glance up. I am wearing a plain white t-shirt and jeans. My hair is a little on the longer side, but not even close to shoulder length. It’s also kind of shaggy and fine. Kind of a weird mixture, I think. It makes me look a little like a girl. My thoughts are interrupted because the cold metal is now under my fingertips. I can practically hear the accelerated thumping inside my chest. My hand wraps itself over the knob and tries to turn it. But it doesn’t budge. Locked. “Locked.” If anyone else were in the room, they wouldn’t have heard that barely audible whisper. “Locked,” I say louder, my voice raising. I try to turn the knob again. It still doesn’t move. The metal starts becoming warm under my fingertips. My hands start banging themselves against the door. “Open the door!” I scream, voice cracking. “It’s locked.” I scream again and pound my hands against my hands against the door until my knuckles are red and bleeding, and my throat feels like sandpaper. No one will come to help me. With a sudden surge of hope, I slam my weight into the door. It doesn’t even move. I shift my weight to my left leg and grasp the knob to the second door, which is to the left of the one I just tried to open. Somehow, I feel sure that it will open. My instincts are correct because as I peer into the doorway, a simple bathroom now stands. Nothing but a bathroom. My legs feel 10 times heavier as I stalk like a zombie to the kitchen table. I plop on on the chair nearest to the stove, glad to sit on something, even though I just woke up from sleep. I scoot the chair back a little and rest my elbows on my thighs and lean forward. Just as I put my chin into my hands, something under the table catches my eye. If I look down a little farther, I can see what it is. Taped under the table is an envelope, marked with the name Christopher. Christopher. In an instant, I recognize my name. I absentmindedly wipe my hands on my jeans, and reach under the table to grab the envelope. After taking it off the bottom of the table and throw the tape away, I run my fingers over it. It feels rough and grainy. And instead of white, like your normal envelope, it’s a tannish, off white. Sort of like an extremely light brown. Its color reminds me of the table. I turn it over to open it up, but a seal catches my eye. It’s still a little damp, and red, paint like liquid comes onto my finger. It reminds me of blood. But I feel like there should be some initials or something on the seal. I have no idea what it could signify. But I know that the letter means that someone had to have been here. Someone was in the room before I was. I’m in here for a reason, and I must have to find my way out. This thought unsettles me. What if I can’t find my way out? Will I die here? I’m sure that I won’t. Will someone come to get me? No. I’m sure of that now. No one left me any information about the door. This might be the only piece of the outside world I might get. So, bracing the uncertainty before me, I open the letter. Christopher, 1oo2. 78#•. 638 ou8. •29w2. w911. ou8. This is all the letter says. It’s just numbers and letter. My breathing gets heavy and I crumple the paper under my fingertips. I bang my fist on the table and cream in disgust. All of a sudden, fat tear drops of anguish spill down my cheeks. I am soon sobbing into my hands, cursing the people who have locked me up. “Why me? Couldn’t you have picked someone else? Someone more skilled to do this?” I scream and yell and bang my sore fists onto the table. I stand up, unable to comprehend how my legs have kept me up. I’m suddenly aware of my fatigue. I collapse onto the floor and curl into a ball, not caring that I’ve been acting like a psychopathic fool. “I want to go home,” I whisper. But I don’t know what home is. For some reason, I know the word. When I think about it, I associate home with happiness, kindness and a sense of belonging. “This room,” I think out loud, “can never be a home. Not like this.” My skin pringles and my feelings switch to sheer terror as I hear the metallic hum of a motor behind a set of closet doors. The hum gets louder, and there’s a rumbling sensation in the floor. I stand up. My legs are shaking once again, but I ignore them. The metallic hum stops and the room gets colder. There’s a steam coming out from under the doors. All I can hear is my heavy breathing and the heart beat inside my heaving chest. I could ignore what’s behind the doors. But that would be foolish. I can’t hide from what’s behind them. Whatever is behind the door could either help me or hurt me. I weigh out the pros and cons. “I’m stuck here anyway,” I think, “I might die here, or be stuck here forever. What choice do I really have?” You always have a choice. A tiny voice inside me says. But I don’t believe it right now. My fear of the unknown suddenly vanishes. I feel different. I’m not sure how to explain it. Sort of like when you get ready to start opening night. Or the gun sounds and it’s time to run. That rush you get. The one filled with adrenaline. All you can do when you get that feeling, is take a deep breath and move on. That’s exactly what I’m going to do. The closet doors are more like wood sliding doors. It’s the same dull colour as the rest of the room. Before I can slide the door, I hear a rumbling in my stomach. This reminds me of an aching hunger for food. That reminder is ignored and a reddened, sore hand now slides the closet door open. It gives a rusty squeak, as if no one has used it for a long time. Which is probably true because the whole room looks like it hasn’t been touched by a single person in decades. Blankets of dust seem to have been collected on every flat surface. The floor, even the cold concrete floor needs a sweeping. The closet door has been opened. But I’m baffled by what’s inside. The whole closet is basically an elevator. And on the floor of the elevator, lies everything I need to tidy up the deserted room, live in it, and keep myself clean. Packaged food is sitting on the floor in a neat pyramid. Crackers, pasta noodles, sauces, and meats set a stack. In their own separate pile, there are cleaning supplies, dusting rags, toilet bowl cleaner, body wash, shampoo, and furniture polish are just some of the things that the cleaning supply pile is made of. To top if off, there is a neatly folded pile of clothes. It’s the same thing I’m wearing now. Same sizes and everything. I’m glad but baffled. What is the point of being here? This stuff just comes up from an elevator? And if it’s an elevator, does it go down. Could I try to escape that way? So many questions run through my head, I can’t keep up with them. I need to figure out what to do. I really don’t want to, but I start with putting everything away. The more I look at the messy room, the more I would prefer it be cleaned up. I know it’s odd for a guy to be this neat, but I need to face the facts. This room is filthy. While cleaning up, my mind wanders back to the letter. What could it mean? I turn my head, searching the floors and counter tops. Finally, I find the letter, crumpled up, torn envelope and all under the table, near the stove. I pick it up and smoothe my hand over it, trying to get out some of the wrinkles I’ve left on it. My train tries to put together the mixture of numbers, letters and symbols. Nothing comes to mind. I push my hand through my tousled hair and think some more. But still nothing. The temples on my head ache, so I rub them, trying to stay concentrated, but it doesn’t work. I need something else to do. Hunger overtakes me again, and I know I should eat something. So I open a box of crackers. The wrapper makes a crinkling sound, and I jam three in my mouth. They’re the circle kind. With a hint of buttery flavor and salt on them. I open a cupboard, fill a glass with water from the faucet, and take a drink of it. The cool liquid slides blissfully down my throat and I realize that I’ve never been this hungry before. I lick my lips, getting the salt from them and jam two more crackers into my mouth. Soon, I’ve finished a whole sleeve of them. I pick up the letter again and set down at the table, taking my crackers with me. “One. Oh. Oh. Two. Seven. Eight. Number sign. Bullet? Six. Three. Eight. Oh. Yu. Eight. Another bullet? Two. Nine. Double u. Two. Double u. Nine. One. Oh. Yu. Eight.” I say out loud. What does it mean? I still have no idea and I don’t think I will have one anytime soon. My chin rests itself into one of my hands and both of my eyebrows crease into the center of my head. My tired eyes close. The numbers have to signify something. The issue is not not knowing what they mean, the issue is figuring out what they mean. It’s not going to figure itself out. “You can’t sit here and try to understand what this means. You have to do something about it. No one can fix your problems for you.” That nagging little voice in my head speaks. Maybe there’s a hidden message on the paper that I can’t see. Like a lemon juice message. Maybe I’m not reading the letter right. There’s a million things I can try to do to crack this code. “The worst you can do is fail,” I say quietly to myself. The crackers have lost their buttery appeal. My throat feels better and I put the food back in its cupboard. I Have a lot to do. It’s a good thing I have a lot of time. I pick the letter and envelope up from the table and take them to the desk that sits beside the cot. “Paper,” I think out loud and tap my chin. I open the desk drawer with the square knob. I pull out a pencil and a pad of yellow paper. As I turn the deskside lamp on, its warm light stretches to the corners of the room that the light bulbs on the ceiling cannot reach. I inhale and exhale deeply. Then, I get to work. First, I put the letter over the lamp to see if there’s any hidden messages. But there aren’t any. I pull the letter beside my pad of paper and look closely, trying to keep my mind open for any possibilities that the letters, numbers and symbols stand for. There are none at the moment, so on the pad of paper, I write No hidden messages. I look at the second mixture of numbers and letters in the last line of the letter. W911. The nine kind of looks like an a. But couldn’t it be a backwards P? Then again, I don’t know of any words that start with wp. And maybe the w doesn’t stand for a w at all. The 1’s look a little like l’s, too. The word could be wall. I’m not really sure how this is of any significance to the room. I could try the same strategy I just used for decoding the word wall, but I don’t know how long it could take, or even if I’m right in saying wall for w911. There are so many unknowns right now, it’s overwhelming. I look at the deskside alarm clock. It’s 11:23 p.m. Last time I seen the time, it was 9:15 p.m. I’ve been trapped in my constant waterfall of thoughts for a little over two hours. I must be having serious jet lag because again, I’m aware that I’m tired. I start to crawl into my bed, and just as my head hits the pillow, I realize the letter looks different. I’m not sure how. But there’s nothing I can do about it now, I’m already asleep. I look up and there are people all around me. They’re laughing, talking, eating, and just being happy. A beautiful woman walks up to me and smiles. “How’s my birthday boy?” She asks. I can see tiny crinkles by her eyes and dimples when she smiles. The lady picks me up and carries me to a table where everyone sits around. There is a cake in the center of the table with a candle that says 3 in the center of the cake. The design on the cake has jungle animals on it. I can feel myself smiling and I look around to see the other children smiling and looking hungrily at my jungle cake. The lady who brought me to the table starts to sing “Happy Birthday dear Chris”. Everyone joins in and at the end of the song, the kids cry out “Blow out the candle!” and “Make a wish!”. So I do so. Everyone claps and asks me what I wished for. But then the image starts to fade away. It starts in the corners, and then everyone’s faces start to get grey. Then I can’t see anyone anymore. I sit up on my cot again and look at the clock. It’s 9:30 in the morning. “Home,” I whisper. “That was home. That lady was my mother and those people were my family.” I look around the room, thinking about where they are now, and if they know where I am. I don’t want to forget that loving look on my mother’s face if I never see her again. Will I ever see her again, or will I just have to carry her with me as a memory. I think about everything that has been going on. It just doesn’t line up. I wake up in a room, try to get out through a door, find a letter and then dream of my 3rd birthday. None of it makes sense. There has to be a bigger picture. So far, I know there has to be a bigger picture in store for me. It’s like a puzzle with the pieces flipped over so you only see the cardboard on the back. I have to flip over the right piece...keep experimenting until the puzzle lines up. “The words,” I think. The funny looking words. I pick up the piece of paper that has by letter written out. But the words look normal, now. I don’t remember why the letters looked weird in the first place. They just did. Maybe a little blurry or something. But I know that something about them wasn’t right. And I’m going to figure it out.

k_lynn · Answer

Ok.  Now feel free to give any feedback, suggestions or anything like that.  Not spam though.

anonymous · Answer

Please use correct grammar and spelling. Otherwise, it's very good!

anonymous · Answer

nice story

anonymous · Answer

I loved it.

k_lynn · Answer

Thanks :)