©2019-2022 michael raven
Morgan stared through the cubby door opening after Mark stood aside.
“Tell me, mate… Why is it that everyone but me seems to have a real kif bedroom, while I seem to be doomed for as mundane of one as the universe can muster on my behalf?”
Beyond the threshold, there were pine trees and underbrush, the will-o-wisp of flurries dancing between forest branches. Morgan could see a lamppost casting a circle of light in a clearing a bit down a narrow path leading away from the door, a beacon against the night within. Cold air washed into Mark’s room, giving relief from the hot, humid Minnesota summer.
“Dunno. Your luck must be real horsepoo,” Mark said, shrugging. “But we’re friends now, ain’t we?”
“Well, then, almost as good as having a door like this of your own. Say — why don’t we go see if Queen Jadis has any good treats on hand, yeah? She’s a little stern, but her treats are to die for.”
Without waiting for a reply, Mark stepped into the forest inside the cubby and Morgan followed close behind.
More flash fiction from 2019, modified a bit more than usual. “Kif” was the prompt via OED. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that every time I opened the crawlspace cubby door in my room if I didn’t hope, beyond hope, that I’d see a street lamp in the middle of a forest beyond. My parents didn’t think I needed a wardrobe.