/lit/ - Literature

I can only write nonsense. But I want to write epic space operas. Ahhh

(Translated)

It took me a few minutes before I found the entrance to the strange house. It was hidden behind a leafless thorn bush. A bird had built its nest there and left it empty. I carefully parted the dangerous branches with both hands and saw a kind of front door, nailed shut with rotten boards. After a few strong kicks, I squeezed through the uncovered hole and stood in the spacious entrance hall.

Straight ahead, a staircase led upward, made a bend to the left halfway up, and was no further to be seen. To the left and right of the stairs were wide wall surfaces, hung with large paintings. In front of them, on the marble tiles, were tubs of tin with dried plants and umbrellas. I took a look at the paintings. They were oil paintings of naval battles, quite old, I suppose, Dutch perhaps. The fire of the guns was tremendously red and yellow and the clouds and the blue sky as clear as glass or a summers day in the green. For defensive purposes I took an umbrella and returned to my initial position, artistically satisfied and well-armed.

Apart from the staircase and the painting walls, I could make out, in the room to my left, something resembling the furniture of a dining room. In the room to my right, I recognized the tip of a Persian rug and concluded that it must be a study and reading room.