Out of Order – A Reedsy Prompt Story – #371 Written in response to the prompt ‘writer your story in a hotel during the off season’, drawing from Shaelin Bishop’s discussion on liminal spaces.
Content warning: death by fire. Copyright 2026 Nicole Peel
The bubbles rose in front of me. Tiny blue and silver circles encapsulating life. The yellow and blue dory flickered over the pink anemone in the fish tank. The tank filter hummed. A monotonous, unnatural sound.
My children had stood here when they were toddlers. Laughing and pointing. Holding hands. One in a brown teddy bear beanie with ears on her head, and one in a Thomas the Tank Engine beanie. They had named the fish from Finding Nemo. It had been a long weekend at the time and the place had been packed. We had placed them in front of the tank to occupy them while we checked in.
I pushed the thought away. Too painful.
‘Ma’am, it is ready now,’ the concierge pointed towards the lifts. His red padded shoulders and red doorman hat were dripping, the gold trim darkened with dampness.
I looked around.
Through both the glass entry on my right and the large window across the lobby to my left showcasing the beautiful Jameson Valley below, it was still bucketing outside. Waterfalls were rushing down the Blue Mountains. There was no scent of earth rising in the mist to mix with the woods, florals, and sky as the water opened the earth’s pores.
Usually the smell of rain calmed me. I was numb, not calm.
I looked down at my hands. They were wet too. My jeans were soaked.
Strange. I didn’t feel cold. I hadn’t noticed the rain walking in.
Tomorrow I would walk the trail and I would feel better. Physical exertion and mother nature. I didn’t care about landslides at this point. I had walked through mud and scrambled over rocks before.
Secretly, I just wanted to feel something different. Was that such a bad thing?
I didn’t know what I felt, otherwise.
The hallway was empty as I headed towards the lifts, dragging my plain black overnight case. It had seen hundreds of trips around the world. What I would do to take them all back.
The small carousel of marine-themed characters on my right had no children bobbing up and down, no laughter. A plastic tape ran around it and a bright red sign read ‘Out of Order’, the script printed as if on a manual typewriter.
I wondered why they had bothered to go to such lengths for a typeface for something that should be such a utilitarian sign.
My daughter had loved the whale. His plastic blue and white eye stared at me knowingly, like the whale that rises next to a boat and meets your soul through his or her gaze, questioning who you were as a creature, your motives and your purpose.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.
‘Same as you,’ I answered in my mind, ‘I am lost.’
Without moving, this whale was stuck in time and space.
The room was simple as I remembered. Blue and gold striped curtains, bedspread and cushions. We had had a family room. The couch had folded out for my son, and my daughter had slept in a porta-cot. The hotel had set up a little welcome teepee for the kids in the corner, with coloring-in books, a welcome plush toy each, and vouchers for the carousel, miniature train ride around the yards, maze garden entry, and use of the floating swans on the lake. The corner was empty now.
We hadn’t used the floating swans that year, it had been too cold. I remember being disappointed for the kids. But we had spent lots of time in the indoor pool. Maybe that would make me feel better now.
I slipped under the water. I could taste the salt and magnesium. A thermal spa, they had called it. Steam and condensation gathered on the glass-paneled roof. Kids voices and splashes, shouts of glee, had bounced off the glass walls and ceiling. There was no echo now. Besides the hum of the water filter, there was no sound. Is this what it felt like swimming around that tank, endlessly?
Empty, it felt more clinical and clean. It was cold, as if the colorful ribbon of life was drowned out by the weight of the water, sunk to the bottom of the ocean, buried by gritty sand to forever be forgotten.
My hands brushed my hair back as I came out of the water, breathing out bubbles. I felt the salt and sand pass through my fingers.
Why is there ash on my fingertips?
I should be warm, but I am cold.
And my shoes are soaking wet on the intricate swirling carpet of red and gold, messy like a child’s crayon box, swirling like flames in a fire.
I would trade anything for the color and the mess. I wanted all the mess back again. Every dropped green sock, every muddy purple shoe, every red drawing book, every orange dollop of pumpkin puree dropped on the floor, every grey piece of Lego piercing the bottom of my foot, every smear of sunscreen on the car seats, every booga-covered hankie, and every brown scuff on the wall.
I would do anything to bring all that color back.
I am standing in the window in the dining room, beautiful Jameson Valley stretched out down below. Beautiful, pristine wilderness. Helicopters had secretly worked hard over the Australian summer bushfires to keep the rare Wollemi pines alive. Miraculously, they had saved them. The species would live on in the wilderness.
But they could not save my two little children.
This is where my son had declared the Blue Mountains to have the ‘best pizza ever’. A fussy eater, it was a bit more than just your average ham and cheese. It had been proper pizza. Stretchy mozzarella, finely shaved prosciutto, freshly cut oregano, and thinly rolled, fresh dough. Gooey in the middle suitable only for folding or eating with a knife and fork.
Or, if you are a child, lifting with your fingers until the cheese was so stretchy it dripped down your chin. Melty, stretchy, gooey cheese. My fork now lifted the stringy cheese to my mouth, a quick twirl to separate it from the mother cheese.
It was tasteless. There was nothing there. The edges of the pizza were charred. My finger tips were blackened. The fork disintegrated into a charcoal pencil in my hand.
The roaring fire by the window filled my ears. I was the only one there today, so I stood in front to figure out what was making the crackles. Seeds and oils bursting. The red flame amplified to golden and piercing greens and blues as the log disintegrated and its oils evaporated.
A slight whiff of decay.
I stand in front of the fire of blackened and glowing wood. My hands are in it now, feeling the warmth my children felt. I should have been there to comfort them. I should have been holding them as their cries were snuffed out. I had arrived too late. No planes flying this day. Fire. Ash. Then hazardous, menacing, ice-cell storms. I had seen the crystalised formation in the sky when flying in, like an ice hammer ready to smash down brutally on everything below.
Rain, rain, rain. Now it was here, falling and weeping everywhere. I pushed my arms fully into the fire and let out a wail.
‘It was supposed to be a holiday! I’m supposed to feel better. But all I am is stuck!’ my mind screamed. I didn’t even know if I said it out loud.
For the strongest moment since I had arrived home to find it burnt to the ground with my children inside, I, too, wanted to die.
Without them, I would always, always be stuck.
The softball-sized pieces of hail had fallen. In some places, hail as big as a chair. Trees and street signs were shredded. Cars and buildings smashed. People and animals injured. The rain put out the fire. But by then, it was too late.
The yellow tape and red label caught my eye. The same tape at the carousel. That was my son’s name in the same font. Why was his name on a label?
A hand on my shoulder.
‘Ma’am, I think we should put him away now.’ The morgue attendant whispered gently, only just audible over the hum of the refrigeration unit in the otherwise silent space where death lived.
I looked down at my child’s blackened and charred tiny little wrist, his little hand melted into a blob of gooey cheese.
Fifteen Minutes – A Reedsy Prompt Story – #360. Written in response to the prompt ‘write from the moment just before
Copyright 2026 Nicole Peel
Birdsong trill on breeze stirs me from slumber. The world is awakening. I am warm. For a second, I am content. I hear the oil column heater click over to drive the temperature up slightly warmer in the dawnish cold.
Winter is well and truly here.
Coldest part of the day, just before dawn. I am snuggled. Warm white blanket slumped over me. The pillow is soft beneath my cheek.
I want to adjust it slightly for my neck. But I’m not ready to move a limb yet.
Then I remember.
My heart sighs.
I remember the words spoken harshly. Mine. His.
Regret fills my nervous system. I stiffen.
A sigh isn’t enough.
A slow breath isn’t enough. My shoulders remain tight, but my head knows the world is now righted.
I roll sideways and pull the blanket tighter around me, adjusting the pillow now.
Voices from years away echo in my brain.
‘You need to stand up to him,’ I hear my dear Aunty Mel say.
‘You need to protect you.’ My sister now.
‘I just don’t trust him,’ my mother.
My girlfriends stopped asking and instead just disappeared.
So there were only fake acquaintances from then on.
And all those little moments over twenty-five long years when people have asked ‘Are you okay?’ only for me to smile and respond with ‘We’re doing great,’ and the story rattles off with the lies I have told myself.
So, I closed myself off. From the truth. From everyone.
I knew I couldn’t take it anymore. Breaking my heart. Scraping my bones. Splitting my soul in two. Threatening to bleed me dry.
Confusing my children.
Creating a ‘tiptoe’ environment for their grandparents.
It was irrecoverable.
But if I took that step, everything changes. Forever.
There would be no turning back.
Finally, I built up the courage. Fifteen years, it had been on the tip of my tongue.
It’s done now. I have said the word that will finally make the heartache gone.
Divorce.
A word oh so heavy in the quiet.
There is no right word to respond, only action.
The birds are getting louder now. The horses will be ready for feeding. Chestnut hair glowing in the morning sun. I open my eyes.
Heartache creates a crack down the middle of me.
Imagine how he’s feeling, I tell myself.
Coffee might help me now, for just a little bit.
I sit up, slip on my slippers, warm on my toes, pull on my dressing gown, warm across my back, and enter the ensuite.
Sitting, there is not much to release. Too many tears, I tell myself.
Wash my hands, brush my teeth.
No one brushing past me.
Coffee will make everything better.
I open the door to the other end of the house.
My footsteps pad down to the kitchen.
The French bodum is already brewed on the bench, waiting to be pressed. It releases easily. The brew wafts into my nostrils with satisfaction.
Like it has been every morning for twenty-five years.
My cup has hot water steaming out the top. Hot and warm.
He didn’t forget, or refuse in resentment.
He did this. Despite everything, he has always been a good soul.
A big part of my confusion. He is not bad. We are just not good, together.
It smells delicious. The coffee.
I empty the water down the sink and pour the hot coffee, add my splash of milk.
Lean against the counter, mug warm in my hands.
Good coffee. My brain slowly hits awake.
My eyes rest on the grey slate floors. They need a clean.
Now where was I?
Oh. That’s right. Divorce.
I’ve said it. The load is lifted. He took it so well.
‘I always knew,’ he said. ‘But I hoped. I kept hoping.’
‘I know. I did too. But we just are too different. I can’t keep compromising.’
That was soft and I knew it. It was more than that. It had been years… and me just not being strong enough, not liking confrontation. I had lost my friends. My confidence. The life I had dreamed of.
‘Life’s too short,’ I had said.
‘I need to live mine’.
‘Indeed, it is,’ he had responded, ‘life is short,’ and walked away to the bedroom, only leaving hours later with asuitcase when I finally went to bed.
We didn’t speak then.
My heart tore. I knew I still loved him.
I just couldn’t make it work without giving up me. Completely. Forever.
My eyes returned to the slate. The large red suitcase leaned against the wall.
He’s packed, but he’s still here, I thought.
Of course he is, who else would have brewed the coffee?
Must be out with the horses.
A little bit of love fills my heart. The things we both love.
Is there hope?
Riding at sunset.
‘Bang!’
A gunshot from outside.
The horses whinnied. I am startled.
What was that? That was a gunshot! No!
Mug down, I run through the heavy oak door in my dressing gown and slippers, looking down the balcony in the direction of the barn.
Just one shot.
‘No!’
The slippers catch on the steps and I push them off, running down the stairs barefoot now in the cold. The dressing gown slings open as I’ve not tied the belt tight enough for running.
The horses look towards me, long black lashes startled but knowing.
My feet crunch on the winter frosted grass. The sharp, cold blue metal gravel. I don’t care that they hurt.
‘Steven!’ I scream, to let him know I am coming, to let him know I am still there for him.
‘Steven!’ I swing the barn door open.
And there, on the soft parched earthen floor, lay the love of my life.
The blood is still seeping into the earth but slowing. His eyes are vacant.
I wrap him in my arms willing to return life to him, holding his chest up to mine.
There is no breathing. No heart rhythmia.
I cannot find my voice as I hold him to my warm chest, life already slipped away from him.
I dare not look at his head.
My heart is all together now, and it is full. But it is full of pain.
I wail at the rafters.
Gone.
Irrecoverable.
Gone forever. He is gone.
