You can tell the broken homes. The copper taste of sadness hangs out front. Sometimes they are brand new and yet broken. The wizards who built them refused to install the souls properly. “Lack of funding” they call it. Worse yet are the flippered men. They drain the soul from an old home and then drink it from a mason jar. ‘Home Brew’ they call it with a wink, but they never smile when they say it. Even they aren’t willing to joke about their profane profession. Sometimes a home seems whole on paper. A family unloads to investigate and they skip through the hallways. Yes. They think. This could be it. Then they step out the back door and they catch the scent of copper. Their joy turns to unease. In the backyard they catch a glimpse of something twisted by the pool. A wisp of tragedy. They bundle up their children and flee. Leaving an exasperated realtor staring in surprise.
The prompts for this short story:
gracious
broken home
chest
twisted by the pool
copper
Copyright 2019 Klaudia Grady
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