Writing on Wednesdays #7

From a short distance it looked like an installation. Someones forgotten works, from long ago, a hollow frontage, a canvas for some kids to tell a story on. The windows, once openings to gaze through, were filled in, replacements, clumsy and childlike were scrawled over the boards. Some had plants on the windowsill, another had a cat. Cartoonish and in bold colours they were the only joyful thing about the place. 
The building itself stood out. But not in a good way, in the way that one white tile in the middle of an all black wall stands out. Like the original had fallen out and all there was to hand was something that just didn’t fit in.  
Up close you could see the roof tiles were being expelled, pushed out by the invading ivy that crawled up the left end facade of the house. 
The unease creeped up into my stomach, just like the ivy on the walls. An emotion drifted in like having a moment of clarity on the bad dream you’d had the night before, before it slips away, like a snowflake in hair. It felt as though someone was desperately trying to tell me something, in a language I couldn’t understand. Like whispers in the dark, I tried to respond, but I couldn’t see who the voice was coming from or what it was trying to say. 

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