The Sultan

Happiness is found in the arms of The Sultan. On this merry day, weary intrepid travellers we may be, found ourselves in this lovely abode. We were starving, dehydrated, turned into jerky by the sun. Now the Sultan’s white plaster facade’s gleam struck us so fiercely that we were blinded; one by one we crumbled, fell to the pavement, in awe of this deity, its fiersomeness. Altogether we were like Plato’s cave dwellers, emerging from our subterranean prisons into the bleary light of day… oh! Oh! OH! AHHHHHHH–

My theatrical recount shall end here.

We stepped into the hotel. It was very plain, with cream floors I remember. Black and cream checkerboxes, black and white walls. A pile of luggage in the corner, ready to be moved. The couch at a far end, beside it a bookshelf, saying Construction In Progress. The back of the lobby opened up. I felt something unsettling from it – someone had spilled ink and blotted out the back rooms. We slowly walked into that ink and then up the stairs, which smelt nice and woody like a tropical massage parlour. I  bent down and licked up and down the banisters. It tasted sweet. Yum! I took a bite out of the railing. Crunch, crunch. Later I realised that sound was not the wood, but my teeth. My teeth were falling out, disintegrating. This was nothing new. I thought I might have been allergic to wood, because my tongue began to tingle. My literature teachers always emphasised the process of See, Think, Wonder, and using your five senses– Kinesthetic, tactile, visual, gustatory, and olfactory. The latter two are often overlooked, but I am not one to cut corners.