Back in February of 2007 I posted about Flight House. There's been a return to the place. Several times in the last few weeks I've walked by on the weekend to find cars in the driveway. Today there was a small Krakatoa of trash bags by the road and the girl's blue bicycle was gone. I didn't see any people but the grass is trampled by the back steps and so I know they have been in and out.
The writer in me wants to go up on the back porch and knock, and find out their story. The coward in me walks on by with my feet stirring the faintest dust into the air. Perhaps some part of me doesn't want to know the true tale. What if it's not as poignant as I've imagined? What if it's not even very interesting.
Right now, the story of "Flight House" is my story. Not their's. Maybe I just don't want to share with my characters.