Oh, why couldn’t she have left well enough alone? The urge to fiddle with things always got her in trouble. Plus, the PAINT was expensive, she didn’t really have the time, and frankly, she wasn’t as great a FIXER as she liked to believe. But here she was, after work, in this EERIE house, with a scraper in her hand. Clearly, she was as mad as the last person who REDID the wallpaper. Gah, what hideous colors. As she continued scraping, the last RELIC of an earlier time peeled away. Lost in thought about the next steps, she jumped, startled by a door slamming somewhere in the house. She froze – footsteps, running – then the faint sound of a woman’s voice. Her heart sounded very loud to her, as she remembered the warnings that the place was haunted – which suddenly seemed preferable to any other explanation. “Who’s there?” she managed to eke out, cursing how frightened she sounded.
Georg’ann
GUESS it was inevitable
that we’d inhabit a PLACE of micro climates.
Every room its own continent.
One humid where the TOWEL
never fully dries, always musty.
Another rarely warms, chill in the air,
comfort sought, under cover.
Some where the weather is capricious,
be prepared for sudden change.
The kitchen unites them all.
Icy floors, simmering steam, slow baking heat,
breezes under and through spaces,
areas that lack insulation.
A room capable of multiple rainbows,
blinding sun, long shadows, sweet scents,
or a noxious BELCH of something
into the air.
Within reach a RELIC or two
gathered along the way.
Heather