A Hidden Yellow World
An olive painted house sat silently adjacent to a dirt footpath. Canopied by trees and littered with foliage, the path opens up to a wheat field outlined and criss crossed by marshy streams. In the horizon there are houses like the olive one, large, dominating, overbearing of the land around them. As though it was an afterthought, a little yellow shed is perched next to the woods that blocked off the dirt road. Although the layout was peculiar, there was something intriguing about this scene. With a closer look at the shed, chipping paint is visible around its base. The wind screamed and then died down to a whimper, taking more pieces of the flaxen flecks with it. An equally damaged seaweed colored roof restlessly weighed down the structure, the ribbons of wind that broke through it howled inside before they left. Behind the battered wooden door resides a world consumed by vines and photographs; moments in time captured and never seen again by those who created it. Vases that once housed potted plants had shattered to the floor many years ago; they left behind chalky pieces that would not be reunited with one another. Two wooden chairs were juxtaposed in front of a desk that matched the roof. An album lays open on the desk, two girl recur throughout the storyline of images. Never smiling, never laughing, but never sad; always contemplating or staring with emptiness. They seemed content together, always laying on one another or sitting closely. They were never kissing in the pictures. Journals full of art overflowed a dresser aside the desk. They never wrote. Not a single word resided in the shed. The shed held their mystery with it, whoever they were. It will forever be perched in a scene behind an olive house that sits silently next to a dirt footpath into another world. And they will remain mysteries.
(this is one of the stories from a book I am currently writing, hopefully the full collection of stories and poems will be published by the end of the school year.)