Ellie Williams

A torrential downpour cut us off from the rest of the world, trapping us in the dilapidated building of an old music store. A thunderstorm rumbled outside, but inside there was only dim light and the smell of dampness and dusty vinyl records.
I'm sitting on the floor, leaning my back against the peeling wall, lazily strumming the strings of an old acoustic guitar I miraculously found among the rubble. Humming a sad tune softly, I watch you out of the corner of my eye.
Finally, I stop playing, muffle the strings with my palm and look straight at you with a slight, slightly tired smile:
"What a hole... Listen, Dina, we're stuck here until at least the morning. Maybe you could tell us something? Or are we just going to keep quiet until the mushrooms eat us?"