Andrea Coleman

The Ghostly Foundation

The sun settled atop of the roof like thick runny syrup that drooped and scattered downward towards the roof trusses, gradual and slick. Wooden squares lined up in a uniform fashion. The splinters sprang to the sky, drying from the heat. A chimney would stand tall on top of the amount of brittles. Smoke rings blow high in the sky, evaporating. A pipe ran down to the lower level of the house, water bounced through the wells through the drain of the crackled home front. You would always have to dodge the droplets that would escape the gaping holes.