There once was a girl who lived on a street, next to a darkened tree. Every other house nearby was painted in colors bright. This house, among the candy coated ones, stuck out in its purple overtones. With the grim but elegant gothic that curled in black stucco along the corners. A menacing statue of some strange beast peering through its vine tomb, at the silly people in their daily routines. All the children with toys at play, were whispered to stay away. “This and that”, they said, “this and that”, to each-other about the house under the darkened tree.

The girl, was always locked away, checking the window in haste to see if any letters had arrived late. You see, a letter was supposed to have been written, the one that was most important. Not much of anything good happened to this small corner of the world, so the wait was very real indeed. Since, no other children, even in their rebellious youth dared to approach the house, and most had even forgotten anyone ever lived inside, it was hard to find decent companions.The shadows had always been the best-est of friends, fickle as they were, and quite demanding too. They needed candlelight to even come over at night. During the day they danced away at every tick and tock of the large pointy grandfather clock. She always knew that there had to be better out there, but the cursed tree outside kept strict rules. Never leave, never ever ever leave, or else, was the basic premise. For what? Was the question that dangled and teased in those long hours putting dresses of debonair Victorian style cloth, ripped from the shades, on to the candlers that seemed to be everywhere. Who is that big mean tree to tell me what to do? Did everyone have such a dilemma she wondered? It didn’t much matter, there was that letter. Yet, as the last bits of sunlight melted in reds and yellows to create orange on the white-washed walls, the reality of the mailman arriving in a hurry at the door dissipated.

The morning arrived bullish as ever to take over the quiet blackness that always flooded this strangest of houses. Like some eager virgin courting a maiden, the sun rushed about returning sight to all the ancient furniture, delicate rugs, and frighteningly large chandeliers that were no longer seen anywhere else. Especially not with the pinks and yellows, shiny cars, and perfectly uniform yards that seemed to give even more power to the architecture. The neighbors had each taken one moment or two to wonder but like with most strange sights, it was just pushed aside usually, like some elephant everyone chose not to notice. She noticed all of them however, watching each one as if they were in some oddly written play. Going to and from, always busy with what they were doing, each day with a new sort of purpose and wonder at doing the same exact things. What a life to live! To do things, and then to do them all over again, was still better than being free to do anything trapped within those stupid walls. Each task, or mission, or game, never brought that same type of wonder for her, it did make for interesting days and even more curious games. How many ways could the portraits of unknown faces, debonair, be talked to? What story today could be given to the fat lady who never smiled, not once, not ever once. Or the man with the mustache curled just so, with the poofy collar that must of already gone out of fashion…she always wondered how it ever became a fashion. Could they be married today? Or divorced tomorrow, just friends, or secret admirers, or how about vengeful friends taking stabs at each-other? She sighed that most familiar sigh, with droopy eyes that were always in the corner looking towards the door.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.