“I was up in the attic . . . .”
My husband eyed me over the rim of his coffee cup. “ You should join Attics Anonymous. Let’s see, you’re met ghosts, found oozing slime and a portal to hell. Am I forgetting anything?, “ he asked, with snark in his voice.
“Well,” I hesitated, “there was the black hole, the demon and the looking glass.”
He never understood how the attic called to me. Invitations to see wondrous things. Offers to meet interesting visitors. Phantasmagorical smells and sounds. Swirling lights. Perhaps the attic was just lonely – putting on a show to have a friend? Even hubby began to think of the attic as a living part of the house, of our lives.
“Please come,” I insisted. “It’s nothing like the other times you went up.” I didn’t like to think about those misadventures too much.
With a sigh, he put his coffee on the table, and followed me up to the attic door. “Look up when you get inside, dear. This time, I think the attic is playing nice.”
Hubby had to admit it was pretty unique peace offering – atticicles in the middle of July.
Written for Sunday Photo Fiction, November 16, 2014 (strange-shaped icicles) Thanks for a great image, Al!