by terra nova » Tue Mar 24, 2020 3:45 am
Short: This Is Not A Home
It’s four AM and the house at the end of the block has all its lights on, every single one from the kitchen overhead to the attic light-bulb. The yellow glow they produce shines out of each window like the house is trying to contain some ancient force that refuses to surrender, instead bursting out at every orifice. All its doors are open to the warm night wind, propped by chairs and sofa cushions and in one place, a fish tank. The one shining goldfish within the glass darts confused from one end of the habitat to the other, flashing in the yellow light. The interior of the house is bare and blindingly bright. Two people are talking, barely audible even in the silence of the street, in the basement where the light glows more fluorescent; more white. Their voices rise and fall like something dreamed up behind the generators at the state fair one night back when someone’s parents were children. No one else is awake.
The whispering continues as the house glows like a huge jack o’ lantern, like a bug zapper, like an airfield landing strip. It is swelled to maximum volume with the lights all pouring out its cracks. A twenty-foot radius is lit like a spotlight, everything blazing calmly in the summer air. There is the sound of a glass hitting one of the basement walls, and the lights all shut off, the block engulfed suddenly in darkness. The goldfish hangs in place in its aquarium, stunned. A dog two doors down falls asleep. Slowly, the doors begin to close creaking on their hinges, and the house deflates.
‘This is not a home,’ says one of the whispers from the dark basement.
Venetian half-blinds descend, and the other voice doesn’t answer. The goldfish’s tank lies broken on the sidewalk.