The winds buffeted the side of the house, scattering its flecks of curling paint. Footsteps pattered across the third-floor attic. Enoch slumped on the chesterfield, his knees propping his arms to cup his hands under his chin. Inclemency always riled the ghost. He shifted his eyes toward the window. A giant oak shrouded the yard in its rustling canopy. Underneath, a tire hung from its limb, swinging from side to side in the flurry of gusts.
Unable to contain the fulminating stress, he snapped erect, slapping his knees, and flew up the stairs. A ladder stood in the corner. He flung open the hatch and poked his head into the jetties of dust. A window laced with cobwebs stood in the gabled wall, spilling its pallid light over the slats of teak growing dingier with time. Beneath, stood an ashen table of uncleaned incense and a centered picture of a boy no more than five.
“Quiet!” he shouted in sotto. But he couldn’t shake the guilt of the son he had slain.
It began with quiet forgetting. A name misplaced, a day misbuttoned. It arrived, not with thunder, but with the quietude that comes before it.
Roland, ever precise, ever proper, responded not with anger but with preparation. He retreated to the attic.
Not the kind that collects the debris of generations, the relics of ancient civilisations, but one singular room; private, perpetual, waiting. A space that had always existed just above the noise of thought. There was no dust here, no cobwebs. Only light and the gentle scent of aged paper and lavender soap.
The trunk is here in the attic, just like he promised. I press my fingers carefully on the metal trim to avoid splinters from the dry, cracked wood.
That’s all I need, after a day at the funeral home pretending grief. Everyone knew what he was really like, and yet, they huddled around the casket singing his praises like trained dogs. When I explained there wouldn’t be lunch after the service, they were so disappointed.
Freeloaders.
I smile as I free the trunk’s lid, but my eager hands find nothing but sticky ashes inside the dark well. Ashes, and bones.
It’s been a little while, but I do love an attic! Here’s mine.
—————
EMPTY NEST
They didn’t listen.
Whitewashing the brick chimney stack piercing the roof, pressing processed fleece between the rafters, stapling plasterboard in place, eradicating every possibility of draughts, erasing the past and the stories it could have told.
There’s no air up here anymore. It’s clinical, the bed, desk and chair new and sterile. A bland shrine to IKEA in all its soullessness.
They forgot.
Me.
A spore spreading my insistent way along the joists, turning wood to dust, a subtle sprinkling, like dandruff, on the parquet floor.
The blender smooths a smoothie into gluggable glugs.
The front door slams.
A fly buzzes above dirty dishes.
A panel shifts in the ceiling, and one foot descends, then another, onto the washing machine.
Roger makes some food, refills his water bottles, uses the bathroom, recharges his devices, and after a few hours, crawls back into the attic, closing the panel behind him.
A box marked “memories” filled with childish drawings, a first shoe, a purple ribbon – I wonder where that was from? A box of well-loved ponies. A farm set of animals with varying proportions. A box of moth-nibbled clothes that were once so important. Another filled with filled journals and notebooks never read again. Two boxes with each grown up child's name and private in large capitals.
What should we do with it all?
Close the trap.
Descend the ladder.
It can wait for another day. It's not like we're moving anywhere soon.
The Haven’s Hollow Historical Society archives were overflowing the cobwebbed space under the eaves of the city’s municipal building. As secretary, Vivian Crenshaw started the day determined to thin out the collection.
Now knee-deep in the ephemera of other people’s lives, she was finding it practically impossible. Surrounded by enough paper to fill a forest and everything from fishing rods to cotton bloomers, she was asking herself what right she had to make these kinds of choices. Everything collected here was once important to someone, each object part of an individual life story.
The stairs creaked as she pulled the ladder down. It settled with a pop that indicated the spring was broken again. She sighed as she watched the descending clouds of dust mixed with pink insulation, making her sneeze. Some people had attics full of memories; she had an attic teeming with allergens.
Still, it was convenient for storing things. A box of child's drawings, her wedding dishes in a pattern that was almost immediately outdated, and the Christmas decorations, stacked and labeled and ready for next year.
No mystery or magic here. Just the ordinary stuff of an ordinary life.
I was charged with cleaning out Grandma's attic. I dug carelessly through broken dishes, nonfunctional appliances, old Christmas ornaments, until I discovered a large wooden box. I opened it to reveal dozens of notebooks, all filled with Grandma's elegant, neat cursive. I began reading and didn't resurface until the sun was setting.
Who knew that sweet, old Grandma, baker of cookies, singer of lullabies, gardener extraordinaire - before dementia took hold - had written such spellbinding tales?
You can read them in her posthumously published book, "Treasures From the Attic of a Tangled Mind." All proceeds are going to the Alzheimer's Association.
WINDSONG
The winds buffeted the side of the house, scattering its flecks of curling paint. Footsteps pattered across the third-floor attic. Enoch slumped on the chesterfield, his knees propping his arms to cup his hands under his chin. Inclemency always riled the ghost. He shifted his eyes toward the window. A giant oak shrouded the yard in its rustling canopy. Underneath, a tire hung from its limb, swinging from side to side in the flurry of gusts.
Unable to contain the fulminating stress, he snapped erect, slapping his knees, and flew up the stairs. A ladder stood in the corner. He flung open the hatch and poked his head into the jetties of dust. A window laced with cobwebs stood in the gabled wall, spilling its pallid light over the slats of teak growing dingier with time. Beneath, stood an ashen table of uncleaned incense and a centered picture of a boy no more than five.
“Quiet!” he shouted in sotto. But he couldn’t shake the guilt of the son he had slain.
Attic
It began with quiet forgetting. A name misplaced, a day misbuttoned. It arrived, not with thunder, but with the quietude that comes before it.
Roland, ever precise, ever proper, responded not with anger but with preparation. He retreated to the attic.
Not the kind that collects the debris of generations, the relics of ancient civilisations, but one singular room; private, perpetual, waiting. A space that had always existed just above the noise of thought. There was no dust here, no cobwebs. Only light and the gentle scent of aged paper and lavender soap.
He began to sort.
PROMPT: THE ATTIC
THE ATTIC
She could hear whimpering sounds, coming from the attic.
If there was an animal trapped up there, she had to help it.
So she climbed the ladder, and went through the hatch.
Then laughed.
The sounds were coming from her daughter’s old toy box.
They must’ve left the batteries in something, before she’d gone off to university.
She immediately called her, to tell her the funny story.
But she said none of her neatly packed toys could make noises like that.
Which was when the toy box began to open.
And the hatch to the attic closed by itself… 😎
The trunk is here in the attic, just like he promised. I press my fingers carefully on the metal trim to avoid splinters from the dry, cracked wood.
That’s all I need, after a day at the funeral home pretending grief. Everyone knew what he was really like, and yet, they huddled around the casket singing his praises like trained dogs. When I explained there wouldn’t be lunch after the service, they were so disappointed.
Freeloaders.
I smile as I free the trunk’s lid, but my eager hands find nothing but sticky ashes inside the dark well. Ashes, and bones.
It’s been a little while, but I do love an attic! Here’s mine.
—————
EMPTY NEST
They didn’t listen.
Whitewashing the brick chimney stack piercing the roof, pressing processed fleece between the rafters, stapling plasterboard in place, eradicating every possibility of draughts, erasing the past and the stories it could have told.
There’s no air up here anymore. It’s clinical, the bed, desk and chair new and sterile. A bland shrine to IKEA in all its soullessness.
They forgot.
Me.
A spore spreading my insistent way along the joists, turning wood to dust, a subtle sprinkling, like dandruff, on the parquet floor.
Joists crack. The roof pauses, tiles -
crash to the ground.
Because of me.
Termites are king! I speak from experience with a that "subtle sprinkling."
100mg - Attic
______________________________________
Jonah was going through boxes in the attic when he found a folder of old newspaper clippings. Curious, he pulled one out.
The headline, "Baby Stolen from Hospital, dated 25 years ago.
His eyes landed on the photo.
The baby had the same birthmark on the chin as him.
He grabbed more clippings—same story, same baby.
His hands shook.
Everything his parents ever told him about his childhood suddenly felt off.
Sitting back, Jonah stared at the photo again.
It was him.
Or at least, it looked like him.
He never expected to find life's biggest mystery in the attic.
As long as the attic is clear, it's all good. I LOVE this one Scott
Whoa! That is a very creepy story indeed! Great ending, Miguel!
Microdosing Fiction - 100mg of Attic
The alarm beeps.
The toilet flushes.
The shower runs.
The hairdryer blasts.
The blender smooths a smoothie into gluggable glugs.
The front door slams.
A fly buzzes above dirty dishes.
A panel shifts in the ceiling, and one foot descends, then another, onto the washing machine.
Roger makes some food, refills his water bottles, uses the bathroom, recharges his devices, and after a few hours, crawls back into the attic, closing the panel behind him.
That same fly buzzes against the window.
The front door slams.
The TV blares.
The wine pours.
The toilet flushes.
The bedside light clicks off.
Attic – 100mg
Full of treasures waiting to be re-explored.
A box marked “memories” filled with childish drawings, a first shoe, a purple ribbon – I wonder where that was from? A box of well-loved ponies. A farm set of animals with varying proportions. A box of moth-nibbled clothes that were once so important. Another filled with filled journals and notebooks never read again. Two boxes with each grown up child's name and private in large capitals.
What should we do with it all?
Close the trap.
Descend the ladder.
It can wait for another day. It's not like we're moving anywhere soon.
I keep a lot of memorabilia too, especially of when my kids were younger.
I think there is more of my kid's stuff in my attic than mine 😂
As always a very clever piece, Miguel :)
100 mg of ATTIC, coincidentally set in the world of The Lost & Foundry and...oh my gosh...episode three drops today!
https://gillywater.substack.com/p/the-lost-and-foundry-table-of-contents
------------------
The Haven’s Hollow Historical Society archives were overflowing the cobwebbed space under the eaves of the city’s municipal building. As secretary, Vivian Crenshaw started the day determined to thin out the collection.
Now knee-deep in the ephemera of other people’s lives, she was finding it practically impossible. Surrounded by enough paper to fill a forest and everything from fishing rods to cotton bloomers, she was asking herself what right she had to make these kinds of choices. Everything collected here was once important to someone, each object part of an individual life story.
Who gets to decide which history matters?
I think it was some kind of thump. I couldn’t be sure. I had my earbuds in and was listening to a podcast about the history of the Kremlin.
I halted my playlist and listened. There it was again. Definite thump. Coming from above.
I rose and headed to the attic stairs. Down they creaked, and up I went. I peered through cobwebs and around old boxes.
Finally, there he was. Trying to open an old piano.
Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky. Not looking happy at all.
Now, what the hell was I going to do with a 19th century Russian composer?
The stairs creaked as she pulled the ladder down. It settled with a pop that indicated the spring was broken again. She sighed as she watched the descending clouds of dust mixed with pink insulation, making her sneeze. Some people had attics full of memories; she had an attic teeming with allergens.
Still, it was convenient for storing things. A box of child's drawings, her wedding dishes in a pattern that was almost immediately outdated, and the Christmas decorations, stacked and labeled and ready for next year.
No mystery or magic here. Just the ordinary stuff of an ordinary life.
I was charged with cleaning out Grandma's attic. I dug carelessly through broken dishes, nonfunctional appliances, old Christmas ornaments, until I discovered a large wooden box. I opened it to reveal dozens of notebooks, all filled with Grandma's elegant, neat cursive. I began reading and didn't resurface until the sun was setting.
Who knew that sweet, old Grandma, baker of cookies, singer of lullabies, gardener extraordinaire - before dementia took hold - had written such spellbinding tales?
You can read them in her posthumously published book, "Treasures From the Attic of a Tangled Mind." All proceeds are going to the Alzheimer's Association.
love that!
Thank you!
Their tiny feet patter across the wooden floor. "Come on. Mummy can't win hide and seek always."
The three-year-old boy looks with admiration at his seven-year-old brother and nods.
They search in their toy box, kitchen pantry, under the beds, and the couches, every place large enough for their mum to hide. They don't find her.
"Mummy must be outside."
But the younger one stops and points at the attic. "Don't be silly. Mummy is scared of ghosts. She won't hide in the attic."
The mother smiles to herself in the attic. "Hide and seek? More like me-time."