deepundergroundpoetry.com
The house
This is a "drabble", a 100-word story.
The house was full of an empty yet endless pain, sunwashed in that sadistic bleaching way that peels wallpaper, rots floorboards, and refuses to allow quietude, peace. The house as I remember it was near a cliff edge, (as all such houses are), and had French windows in the living room, all the better for bringing in that burning light. I would hide in one of the upstairs bedrooms, but not those furthest from the horizon because despite everything I liked to stay within view of it, undistinguished as it was by other houses, streets, towns, people, life, the world.
The house was full of an empty yet endless pain, sunwashed in that sadistic bleaching way that peels wallpaper, rots floorboards, and refuses to allow quietude, peace. The house as I remember it was near a cliff edge, (as all such houses are), and had French windows in the living room, all the better for bringing in that burning light. I would hide in one of the upstairs bedrooms, but not those furthest from the horizon because despite everything I liked to stay within view of it, undistinguished as it was by other houses, streets, towns, people, life, the world.
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