A Building that Belongs to it's Hill

Flash Fiction

The sprawling stoop laid gracefully on top of the long slow grass. The cement at its base rooted down through the sod while the flat stone poked up through the gables. Everything was in its place from coats to kitchen knives, so organically. Oh, Taliesin here comes the rain over the plains.

In her kitchen, she saw the sun poking through the large windows. She turned and noted that the servant was coming to clear the breakfast dishes away.

Some blood peeked out of her blouse. The last thing she thought: That was unusual. Whatever got into these servants? If everything was not in its place, things would run amuck.

At the base of a tree, there stands a plaque: 1889-1922.