Red white and Blue House

The red, white, and blue house stood naked in the sunlight. It had been abandoned for years, once home to a doting pair who had for some reason decided one day that they had to move as far away as they could possibly bear. The house, uncared for had begun to fall into disrepair, until the day came when nobody even glanced in its direction to see if life had returned to its hinges, if laughter kept its paint fresh and the leaves swept from its porch.
Its paint had begun to crack and peel, and its timbers had become home to wood worm and rot. The world was no longer focused through the cracked glass of its windows, or composed by their once sturdy frames. The tiles on the roof were no longer sufficient to protect it from the judgement of the heavens, or to afford it the respect it had once known in the eyes of those passing by.
Nature had embraced its latticed boards and claimed its straight lines and simple angles, filling its gaps and its cracks with a verdant language too explicit and complex for such a humble house.
A tree grew from its centre, a synaptic structure that did not quite reach the sky it was purporting to connect with, but that with each passing year asserted its presence that without doubt now gave the house a structure and a firm foundation that it had not known for many stormy summers, snow shrouded winters and, pollen-filled springs.
The Fall was always kind to the house, gilding its beams and raised profiles in the low evening light with a richness that would make its colours sing with melodic pride, if but for a moment that would soon fade back to silent grey as the night hid its pleasure, and the moon grasped it in cold silver.

The hum of a passing bee whispered, “What a sad looking house”. The swaying grasses by the edge of the road hissed gently, “What a sad looking house”. The gentle touch of the breeze blowing through its eaves and tree leaves lamented, “What a sad looking house”. But all of its ducts had long since run dry; not a tear to be shed in its honour. Its life-force cut off by the power company, and the over-zealous mice that had gnawed through its venous web of cables, ensuring that the house could not be reborn from the spark of the lighting bolts that occasionally surged through its wooded spine.
Its heart a great open hearth no longer gave heat to the now empty chambers that were once furnished with love and treasured memories, whose defences had been breached and overtaken in absence of care, by alien species, and who now gathered spiders and bugs like they gathered dust, and dried up feces.

Poor sad red, white, and blue house, standing naked in the sunlight. Would that someone would acknowledge its plight, forgiving its shame, and at least say a prayer for its passing.

4 thoughts on “Snapshot Stories – The Sad House

  1. This is lovely. You breathe life into the unliving, which is the gift of the story teller. Your short stories are a synaesthetic thunder, rolling in the distance. We can hear its life, but know it only rains on you. Thanks for sharing it with those of us stuck here in the desert.

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