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Weekly Contest #308
I park a block away. The house is already half-gone, its metallic bones jutting into the overcast sky like the ribs of something ancient and long-dead. There’s yellow caution tape flapping in the wind, a warning sign half-buried in a mound of dirt, and the thick, unfamiliar smell of turned earth and disturbed memory. But no one stops me as I duck under the tape and walk toward the yard. No one ever does, anymore. The grass is taller than I remember. It sways like a slow ocean, unruly and whispering, brushing against my shins as I move throu...
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