Attic dust
Short story/flash fiction
Up those attic stairs, careful where I placed my feet to keep the wood from groaning and tattling, I went up, books under arms to my hiding place. In summer it was sweltering, in winter I shivered, breath puffing over the words on the page. It stank—of rodents, of rot, of cooking smells wafting up from the kitchen, and various smokes—green, grey, brown.
The only window was covered by plywood, so I would bring up a flashlight. I would sit in the corner away from the stairs, the noises from all the people beneath me were deadened enough I could pretend they were all far away.
If I pulled the plywood from the window, from outside it would look shattered, the glass left intact all streaked in dirt, a film of old duct tape glue—an old, failed repair job cooked by the sun.
But to me, on my side of the glass—the sun made the dust shimmer like diamond, the grey fur of the mice became shining coats of mail, and they were all running to battle in their tiny kingdom. Through the window I saw a vast sky, clouds all shaped like winged things and unicorn horns—below was a field of grass and flowers, no asphalt, no concrete, no rusted cars or burning barrels. Wild horses fed on the grass, and I wished more than anything that they could reach the window, so I could ride away—or the clouds became solid enough I could climb on them, and float over everything.
I had my books.
***
The house only exists on our side. If you pass through the window, there was no coming back. I knew that.
Lightning once struck the antenna on the neighbour’s roof, and I wondered, if I sat in the right spot, if there was a chance the lightning might strike me through the window, and what would happen if it did.
The yelling downstairs turned to smashing, and I was supposed to be at school. In the stories there are princes that climbed up walls and looked in dangerous windows—maybe if I slept up there, or grew my hair out. The only climbing was onto the shed, onto the roof, yelling policemen as the feet pounded over my head, down the other side and over the fence.
It was evening, and the sun at the perfect angle lit the diamond up, and turned the old nails and abandoned paint cans into gold. Was I a dragon, guarding treasure? There must be some dragons that are good. Just a little girl who could breathe fire. If it all burned down there would be no difference between the magic clouds I couldn’t reach and the broken glass that looked so ugly.
Those footsteps, what if it was a giant preparing to rip the roof open like a cookie tin, to get at my dragon’s hoard? The mice were many, and brave, but too small to fight a giant for me.
I put the plywood back over the window. The blanket of diamond was dust again.
Short piece today, but don't fret, more to come soon!
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