seasoliloquy (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
seasoliloquy) wrote2020-01-12 01:21 pm
seasoliloquy) wrote2020-01-12 01:21 pm
Entry tags:
Original - The Paper House
Title: The Paper House
Fandom: Original
Characters: Laura (original character)
Length: 678 words
Rating: G
Summary: The paper house disliked new additions.
Author's Notes: Just a quick, unedited piece, written for![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
picture_prompt_fun #139.
The wind lifted the autumn leaves in a scattered eddy, singing against the rim of the abandoned beer bottle in the doorway of the paper house. Caught in the tail of the breeze, a piece of paper, torn at one corner, ghosted down the street and settled itself against a bench underneath a tree.
The paper house disliked new additions.
All of the newspapers pasted on the inside of the window were old; some from only a few years ago, others from far longer. The oldest, Laura thought, was the one dated from July 1994. At least, that was the oldest one that she had seen. It was possible that one day, she might catch sight of another, older paper, passing by the house on her way to the city gardens. The headlines changed, and so did the papers of the paper house.
Of course, the headlines hadn't changed too much recently. And when they did, it was always for the worse. Superficially they were different - war, famine, fires in different countries, different politicians weaving different silver lies. But at the root, the headlines were the same as always. Laura remembered differently; she remembered a time when they changed, only monthly, perhaps, but they changed. People were interested in different news then, maybe. There weren't different papers all with the same news.
Laura wasn't sure. It had been a long time since she was a child, after all.
Now, she leaned on her stick as she approached the paper house. The wind wasn't quite strong enough to blow a person over, perhaps, but the gusts were harsh and uneven enough to throw her off her balance, which had never been especially good anyway. She slowed as she approached the paper house, peering into the windows.
She wondered, sometimes, what she would do if one day she were to find someone peering back at her. As a child, she had imagined herself screaming, waving, all manner of different reactions. She had tried the door once, thinking herself brave beyond belief, and found it locked; after that, she had spent months in wild imaginings of what might be behind that door, what might look at her through the gaps between the papers. Now, she thought herself most likely to simply nod, and continue on her way.
But nobody peered back at her, and none of the papers changed. So Laura sped up again, leaning into the wind.
She paused at the bench under the tree, looking up at the few leaves that still clung defiantly to the branches. And that was when the scrap of paper, caught once more by the wind, flapped into her ankle and pressed itself there.
Laura made her slow way down into a crouch, wincing a little at the feel of underused muscles and old, rubbed-bare joints. She picked up the paper; it was cheap, the kind of printer paper you had once been able to buy for pennies. The type nobody used anymore, not now that better paper was far more easily available.
One side of the paper was blank, though she could see the shadows of words through it. Laura turned the paper, and found on the other side words written in thick black marker, in carefully precise capitals: 24HR WITNESS.
It was the kind of thing you might see graffitied somewhere, by some youth who thought that they were the first to have ever fought the system. Laura looked up from the paper, back towards the paper house.
It had changed.
Laura stared at the newly blank windows. Pitch black, no newsprint or faded advertisements left. Then she looked down at the piece of paper in her hand.
The words remained the same.
Laura walked back towards the paper house.
On the door, there was a corner scrap of paper. When Laura held up the paper she had found, they matched precisely.
And as Laura stood there, the lock turned.
She looked at the paper in her hand, and let it flutter away. Then Laura reached out and opened the door.
Fandom: Original
Characters: Laura (original character)
Length: 678 words
Rating: G
Summary: The paper house disliked new additions.
Author's Notes: Just a quick, unedited piece, written for
picture_prompt_fun #139.The wind lifted the autumn leaves in a scattered eddy, singing against the rim of the abandoned beer bottle in the doorway of the paper house. Caught in the tail of the breeze, a piece of paper, torn at one corner, ghosted down the street and settled itself against a bench underneath a tree.
The paper house disliked new additions.
All of the newspapers pasted on the inside of the window were old; some from only a few years ago, others from far longer. The oldest, Laura thought, was the one dated from July 1994. At least, that was the oldest one that she had seen. It was possible that one day, she might catch sight of another, older paper, passing by the house on her way to the city gardens. The headlines changed, and so did the papers of the paper house.
Of course, the headlines hadn't changed too much recently. And when they did, it was always for the worse. Superficially they were different - war, famine, fires in different countries, different politicians weaving different silver lies. But at the root, the headlines were the same as always. Laura remembered differently; she remembered a time when they changed, only monthly, perhaps, but they changed. People were interested in different news then, maybe. There weren't different papers all with the same news.
Laura wasn't sure. It had been a long time since she was a child, after all.
Now, she leaned on her stick as she approached the paper house. The wind wasn't quite strong enough to blow a person over, perhaps, but the gusts were harsh and uneven enough to throw her off her balance, which had never been especially good anyway. She slowed as she approached the paper house, peering into the windows.
She wondered, sometimes, what she would do if one day she were to find someone peering back at her. As a child, she had imagined herself screaming, waving, all manner of different reactions. She had tried the door once, thinking herself brave beyond belief, and found it locked; after that, she had spent months in wild imaginings of what might be behind that door, what might look at her through the gaps between the papers. Now, she thought herself most likely to simply nod, and continue on her way.
But nobody peered back at her, and none of the papers changed. So Laura sped up again, leaning into the wind.
She paused at the bench under the tree, looking up at the few leaves that still clung defiantly to the branches. And that was when the scrap of paper, caught once more by the wind, flapped into her ankle and pressed itself there.
Laura made her slow way down into a crouch, wincing a little at the feel of underused muscles and old, rubbed-bare joints. She picked up the paper; it was cheap, the kind of printer paper you had once been able to buy for pennies. The type nobody used anymore, not now that better paper was far more easily available.
One side of the paper was blank, though she could see the shadows of words through it. Laura turned the paper, and found on the other side words written in thick black marker, in carefully precise capitals: 24HR WITNESS.
It was the kind of thing you might see graffitied somewhere, by some youth who thought that they were the first to have ever fought the system. Laura looked up from the paper, back towards the paper house.
It had changed.
Laura stared at the newly blank windows. Pitch black, no newsprint or faded advertisements left. Then she looked down at the piece of paper in her hand.
The words remained the same.
Laura walked back towards the paper house.
On the door, there was a corner scrap of paper. When Laura held up the paper she had found, they matched precisely.
And as Laura stood there, the lock turned.
She looked at the paper in her hand, and let it flutter away. Then Laura reached out and opened the door.
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