Haze

On a bluff along the shores of a sublime and rural lake where the pebbles always skip past two, there stands a vintage home. Only the vintage effect has moved over for dilapidation. A stream of stagnant smoke is never-ending from the rooftop and a dog’s howl wavers from inside. Through one of the cracked windows at the front of the house shines a pale light, and of it flows a musky smoke different to the variety pluming out the chimney.
         If one were to see this house from an outsider’s perspective, which happens quite often, they would presume it had been abandoned-left for a ramshackle life of aloneness, high above the water it so desperately avoids. To say this would be wrong however, as the house does keep its company, the very same company it has kept for nearly fifty years. Back then times were different. Light bulbs weren’t so few and far between and the brown smoke that peels back the wallpaper was non-existent. In the garden now laden with a crumbly cover of brown death, there grew a plethora of colors. It was a mix of such vibrancies that those who walked by always stopped to look and point. People still point, but they try not to look.

         The woman who resides at 1989 Cold Creek Crescent watched a loon on the lake beneath her. A cry rolled out his beak and flooded the skies, but it was lost in the woman. Lost in her perpetual stare that spoke a million words but only ever needed two; ‘help me.’ It would be impossible to guess what she sees as her eyes don’t work in the same way ours do, no. They are hindered by a heroin haze.