The door of
the house, beaten and open, hung askew, letting in the elements. Crude
red-painted slogans of hate had dripped down, forming blood-like droplets on
the tile floor of the foyer. November’s dead leaves scuttled through the
opening with the wind.
In the main
room, an empty bookcase lay on its side, stripped of knowledge and dissent.
A smell of
decay permeated the house from the dining room. Platters and dishes of moldy
food sat around the table. Broken glass littered the floor around overturned
chairs.
In the
basement, hidden in an old fruit cellar, a human nest in disarray held an
overturned cot and a few scattered possessions.
On the second
floor, an open window and a large stain of dried blood on the walkway below
greeted the casual passersby, who quickly looked away and hurried on.
An attic full
of memories and furniture, breached, its contents rudely pushed about among the
cobwebs where black-clad searchers sought their prey. Drag marks scoured the
dusty wooden floor.
The back
door, not abused like the front, opened freely. The small garden, trampled by
many boots, struggled to regain its composure. A tattered piece of cloth from a
ripped shirt fluttered on the barbs at the top of a wire fence like the pennant
of a defeated army.
The house,
once a haven, cheerful and inviting, now held the silence of the disappeared.
Lee Conrad
Lee Conrad lives in upstate
New York. He is a Vietnam-era veteran, worked at IBM and on staff at a major
labor union. His stories have appeared in Down in the Dirt, Fiction on the Web,
Literally Stories, Longshot Island, Storystar, The Magazine of History and
Fiction, and Literary Yard.