By Crystal Snoddon
Childhood photographs—some thirty years since she’d last laid eyes on any. Silent proofs, brittle negatives packed in mouldy boxes in Grandmother’s century-old home of crumbling plaster walls, creaky plumbing.
The new owners likely hadn’t found the upper bedroom cupboard fronted by wainscoting. The well-concealed room for small children, all hide and seek, of molested innocence, blanketing of dark truths moth-balled.
Biographies imprinted on glossy paper—she found them afloat in the puddles formed by the firefighter’s streaming cascade, the inferno set with petrol in the back corner where arbor met porch. They stared up in reproach.
She had forgotten them.
An eerie little tale. I liked it a lot.
Lovely images