Fallen Short: Flash Fiction
Darian thought an attic window black as that could not be empty behind the glass. But no one who’d broken the others could pitch a stone to reach so far.
She’d wondered if this were true.
The V between the front porch roof and that of the upper story held a shoal of debris, twigs and leaves, rusted blisters of metal from the roof itself. Maybe stones that had fallen short.
She got out from under the elder’s roots, and stood where the creek lapped her shoes and the derelict, so near teetering over the road, was easier to see. And concluded she would have to go pitch a rock herself, or how would she know?
How close you could get.
She looked the house in the eye for a long time. She glimpsed a face…convinced herself she had…a cobwebby oval of white. Brooding, haunted things gathered in attics, or at the back of cisterns in damp cellars. She thought what a secret pleasure it would be, when other kids said it.
“Someone broke that window.”
(copyright 2017 Stephanie Foster)