Who’s There?

The life and preoccupations of someone who is sometimes alone in a house.

Image Credit: 
Public Domain

It’s dark.

It’s day.

They have shutters over the windows.

They’re seldom here.

I’ve kind of got the place to myself.

I stay still.

I keep myself to myself.

Slowly strolling shafts of sunlight insinuate themselves through the slits in the shutters and amble across the walls

The fittings

The furniture

The floor

And I watch.

It’s nice.

I like it.

Slow, though.

I prefer night when things start moving and I see the swift, shutter-skewered beams of the passing cars headlights, stream their slanted stripes across

The fittings

The furniture

The floor


Utter dark.

And I keep utterly still.

Something I’ve always been able to do.

Born to it.

Mind you, if something brushes past my leg in the dark, I’m off.

You never know.

But if I feel something, you know?

Like we all really feel things, even though we don’t see them, but we know it feels right.

I’m on it.

I’m a spider.

What else would I do?

Chris Plato specialises in short stories, lyrics, poems and flash fiction - arriving via performance, song writing and film scripts.

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