An Exchange of Gray

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.


Behind the shimmering curtain of rain, made bright by passing headlights, a stately house appeared. Faint at first, its thin translucence swallowed the house that had been built in its absence. As the rain splashed against the walls and roof, the house became more and more real until we could feel it's dominating presence as it towered above us.

Five of us stood on the street in yellow ponchos, our gear in watertight backpacks at our feet. Bobby had hand truck loaded into a wheelbarrow that had a crowbar, a hammer and various other tools strapped to it. The bottom of the wheelbarrow was steadily gathering water into a growing puddle.

Seymour was the first to speak“The storm's forecast to last eighteen hours.”

“Plenty of time to explore the place before it disappears again.” I said.

Della, Ray, and Jan looked on nervously but the gleam of excitement shone in their eyes. Seymour grabbed his pack and led the way.

As the last to go in, I was the only one who noticed a light turn on in one of the windows.


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