A woman in an attic 

Part one of some fiction.

She had liked the bright whitewashed walls at first. She could see above all the trees. This is what flying feels like, she had told herself, standing nose to the cool glass of the window. And, there was so much space! So much glorious space. No furniture to cramp the wild and free movement of her playing children. She had twirled them around the space one at a time spinning until they had fallen down on the hard ground laughing. The mattresses they had pulled up could be jumped on. The white sheets that had followed could be thrown into the air by her children’s small hands. She had watched with delight as the sheet floated down to cover their curly heads. 

But, the house downstairs was mostly empty now. Claire had stood at the window and watched the remaining inhabitants leaving. She had wanted them to leave. She had grown so weary of their constant hovering. And, their lies, she had grown so weary of their lies. Charles had been the last to leave. His sister had come for him. His forlorn pacing through the rooms had become quite distracting. He would walk up to the attic even, their attic, and settle himself down in the middle of the floor for hours. It was very upsetting to the children. 


I write abecedarian sequences

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