Knocking for sales, amongst a thriving industrial suburban district, my next visit was to a ramshackle dwelling; tenaciously clinging to life like a stain on a new Sunday dress.

Front door open to a neglected interior, oozing a musty stench of decay, I called out for invite to enter.

Torn Lino floorboards creaked insidiously, as wallpaper strips ripped in the wind – a howling echo, haunting and hollow.

Rooted, with intrigued gaze, I reeled to attention at her appearance. 

The woman was an apparition as grim as the house. Straggly grey hair, sprawled like a mat of rot, flew from her face in the wind.

Her skin a sagging garment of parchment – wasted and threadbare, as her dress, clung to a skeletal frame, against the wind.

Opaque eyes honed with mistrust tried to pierce through my mission.

My fear, now a rapid fire pitch, crowded her senses and so her harsh croak of rejection, relieved my departure.

Stunned, I scampered back to the safety of noise and pollution – an affirmation of Life. 

Once on the pavement, I stole myself for a backward glance and my comfort sank; for the sinister scrag and her house was now as bewildered a  grimace of weeds –

as was my confusion.


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