the high-rise

1B
Cat hair covers the furniture. A blue haired woman bent with age knits on the couch, the TV on mute. Her fingers are stiff and crooked. They shake with effort. Blue veined legs, short and saggy protrude from a dusty house coat. The coat is covered with hair too. In the bedroom cats are on the prowl. The milk in the refrigerator is old. Fourteen cats smell the curdled milk and pace in anticipation. Their once fluffy coats are drab and greasy from too little food and not enough care. A cloud passes over the sun. She looks up from her knitting in time to see a spray of glass land on the patio.

8A
He sits in the only chair on the balcony, head hung between bare knees glancing up only to dwell on the blinking red light on his answering machine. One new message. There is no ashtray out there, only the breeze and cement. He pushes damp, blonde hair from a well tanned forehead. Too many hours in the sun combined with too many days away from home force him to this. Cigarettes and a messy apartment. His dirty laundry hangs from lamps and chairs. He shifts to the left forcing a dangling t-shirt to obscure the inconsiderate blink of the nagging red light. A cloud passes over the sun. His shadow disappears. He lifts his head; wide eyes watch glass glitter by.

12F
Sharp shards of midday light blare through the blinds onto glossy linoleum. A carved wooden desk gleams in the center of the cavernous space. Spindly legs cross and uncross behind the desk, the whisper of skin on skin echoes. Smooth fingers rest on the keys in silence. There is so much to say. There is nothing to say. Square glasses perch on a long nose, a nose only a mother could love. Her mind is blank. Frustrated hands flutter around her head, thrown up in defeat. She rises suddenly and moves to the window. A cloud passes over the sun. Blinds are yanked up with force and only dull grayness greets her. The window is forced open, a breeze brushes over her frown. She takes a step back discouraged by the sky. Only the tiny crunch of splintering glass can be heard.

17C
Hard eyes and a shark smile covered in tears. Snug between the toilet and wall. The tips of shiny red shoes peek out. Cold tile cuts through the thin skirt and thin skin. She shudders, a chill and a sob pass through her small body simultaneously. Clenched in child hands is the head of her favorite doll, the one with the checkered dress. The body is in the bedroom abandoned for tears and solitude. Glassy eyes stare back at her. The red comma shaped mouth appears to be smirking, mocking her for playing too rough. Small feet thud down the hall towards the floor to ceiling window. She stops, catching her reflection in the glass. Porcelain and human faces press against the pane. A cloud passes over the sun. A sob and shattering glass break the quiet. The little girl stands gulping fresh air as the head with black curls and a painted face arcs out across the street, leaving slivers of glass to plummet downward.

Learn more about this author, Elise Huston.
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