Flecks Of Green Paint

As I sit on the steps, I stare at a lines of sunlight streaming through the slats on the fence in front of me. The steps are dark green where the paint hasn't yet chipped or peeled off, revealing the rotting wood beneath. This is my spot. Each day I sit here for two hours in the afternoon staring at the lines of sunlight.

There isn't much else to do in this place. I've already counted the fence slats and memorized the location of every knot in the wood. I tried gardening, but nothing will grow in this heat. Or maybe it is the land that kills the flowers, cursed from years of inattentive owners who were more likely to throw trash in the dark dirt than seeds. Whatever it is, I haven't been able to successfully grow even a weed. Any childhood dreams that still floated in my heart about creating a secret garden have been dashed.

The lines of sunlight move slowly. They move, and then fade, as dusk lays down her shadowy covering. I see a flicker of light pass by, as the lightening bugs come out to play. That is the signal to leave my spot on the green stairs, and go inside. I like to be safely shut behind locked doors when the real darkness falls.

I build a fire to keep out the chill of night air that seeps through the cracks in the walls. Hot in the afternnon, cold at night. This place can't make up its mind. Closing my eyes, I reach out to the bookshelf, blindly picking something to read. I've read them all so many times, it hardly matters which one I pick, but still I lovingly carry my treasure to the striped chair in front of the fire. It will be my friend and company through the night as I immerse myself in a world where stairs don't leave flecks of green paint on the back of your legs when you stand, gardens grow, and time isn't measured by the slow movement of shadows.

Chapter One. Once upon a time...

*NaBloPoMo loves fiction.

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