Attie and the Owl
Attie guided the car past horses and tobacco fields. An old house, its former contents piled on the porch, watched traffic through blank windows. A statue faced the door. There was no driveway. A ditch out front discouraged parking.
Attie turned to see her father at the table, locking eyes with identical gray ones. “Your mother liked owls,” he said, sliding a faded picture across the Formica. An inked owl hovered between pale shoulders.
An old house watched an intruder cross the road. The woman paused to rest, setting a winged statue down as headlights flickered closer. The driver missed the owl, but collided with the woman. The impact launched her into silent flight.
This short story was originally published on Apocrypha and Abstractions.
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