Random-Worder

So, WAC stands for Writers-and-Critters.
It's an online members-only all-women international writing group.
I've been in it for nearly a year.
I love it because of its rigour - we're all professional writers, there are membership rules - a minimum of 2 submitted pieces of writing per month, 2 detailed critiques of other members' work per 1 submission of our own.
The critiquing process also maintains a professional approach, no 'attagirl' stuff.
Belonging to the group raises my game.

There are some optional extras to the sub/critique process. These extras are posted for any member to use if they want to for flexing the creative muscles.
There are regular 'writing exercises' for example
And there's the weekly 'random word'. We all take turns being the random-worder for the month. The random-worder chooses a word at random (bet this surprised ya :-)), posts it so that members can 'come on it unawares', and then free-write for 10 minutes in response.
It can be a valuable mini-workout.
There are no expectations on this sort of freewrite, it's completely unedited material.

Anyways, I'm the random-worder for April, and I've been cheating in that I've been posting 2-word phrases that catch my eye in one of the books I'm reading - The Essential Gore Vidal, Ed by Fred Kaplan.

Below is my random word April #3, belower is my freewrite response to it (remember, it's completely unedited, it's as it comes ...)

Fi
xx

RW = Behind Curtains


My freewrite ...


Behind curtains


She's standing in the hall.
It's a long hall, a gallery.
On either side of the hall, adorning the walls are no pictures, no ancient portraits, just floor to ceiling curtains, not continuous, pairs of curtains with varying amounts of bare wall in between.

She's tried to walk down the hall but can't as if there's an invisible force-field stopping her. So there's nothing for it, she supposes, and she approaches the first set of curtains.

They are striped, candy striped, apart from in the middle, where the fabric is still striped but red and white and swirly stripes, like the sign outside a barbershop.
She opens the curtains and walks forward, she's stepping out of a beach hut onto the beach. It's a summer beach, it looks like Folkestone, it's early in the season because there are people there but it's not crowded. A long row of candy-striped deck chairs cuts the beach like an equator. All the chairs are taken. Although she can see everyone's having fun and see their mouths move as they talk to each other, she can't hear anything other than the noise of the waves, the seagulls crying in the air. She makes to walk down to the sea, when all of a sudden four men jump out of nowhere and block her way. they start to sing. They are a barbershop quartet. She is enchanted by the a capella singing. She sways to the music, closes her eyes

And is back in the hall

She starts to cry for absolutely no reason that she can think of, so she stops

She has another go at walking down the hall but can't pass beyond another pair of curtains. They are tartan, red and green with a touch of yellow in it. It's an attractive tartan, she thinks she's seen it somewhere before.

She opens the curtains and walks forward. She is in a ballroom in what looks to be a Scottish castle, with antlered stags' heads all around the walls, above wood panelling. There's some celebration going on. Men in kilts, regimental uniforms, bagpipes playing, couples dancing a reel in the middle of the floor. It's winter, the air is cold, in spite of two roaring log fires at either end of the room.
Here, says somebody, and she's handed a steaming bowl of porridge. She's hungry, not having eaten since she stumbled into the hall so very long ago. She eats the porridge, it's delicious, and she's swaying to the music, closing her eyes