The Door

Peeling splintered wood, rust and creeper - a door. When pushed, it dragged on the ground, opening a gap just enough for a boy to slip through. Inside, partly mulched newspapers, their edges still dry enough to flap in the wind. There are other misprints, dead birds smudged by decay desiccated wings trembled by feathering gusts. There is no house, only foundation and rubble. Sinewy weeds, bacon rinds and other grinds spiral among overgrown stems, casting parasitic shadows. Then a real find; a plastic pen with a lady on it. If you turned it upside down her clothes fell off. He felt that a door had ushered him through to where the flightless flew, a place where the world of adults became open graves. That night, he looked at the naked lady, seeing her more as a door than any plaything. A door he now curiously pushed against.