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Once a landmark of New York City, the old St. Regis Hotel was now

sectioned off by metres of cautionary yellow tape. Desolate, the

20-storey building sat like a person in quarantine, as explosive

technicians continued their crowd control.

Gone was the opulence and gone was the life, but the memories



A wave of white flooded into the room as a groom carried his bride over the



A kerfuffle of shuffling feet and muffled voices echoed down the halls before six

pairs of legs entered the pool gate.


The sound of silence infiltrated the bar, as a lonesome man stared at his blank

phone screen.


Black garments hung haphazardly around the disheveled room



Cabin luggage in tow, a pilot made his way to his regular room. Even the jet-

lag couldn’t hinder his navigational skills, as he dozily travelled the all-to-familiar

halls. The weekly red eye from Los Angeles had him at the St. Regis at 5am every

Friday morning, and had for the past thirteen years.


A Mr. and Mrs. Smith signed in at the check in desk, and made their way, arm

in arm, to the elevator. Wedding bands, forgotten in pockets and purses, the

adulterers came together in a passionate embrace. The combination of immorality

and infidelity sullied the crisp, white bed sheets



A fan whirred overhead monotonously as two miotic pupils stared out from

the smoky haze. A cough. A moan. An escaped breath. Another cough. A man

rolled to his side; hands fumbling blindly on the bedside table, knocking the castoff

syringe to the floor. Returning to his back, he continued watching the pink

elephants and orange monkeys swinging from the fan.


Flustered makeup artists and pretentious actors filtered through the lobby,

gingerly side-stepping the wall of cameras. Lighting equipment triggered sweaty

foreheads, whilst rain towers fashioned a storm, on a clear spring day.


The St. Regis

Charlotte Rodway

Isobelle Carmody Award

for Creative Writing