We called it the watch-house. It was the perfect playground, despite our parents’ warnings.
A hornets’ nest hung from a high window. Someone would come and remove it periodically, but the nest always grew back.
We dreamed up the notion that the nest was a collector, gathering up the world’s evils, growing huge with them, until the watchers came to take it away. We imagined that life sat less heavily on our young shoulders each time it disappeared.
I called in again recently when I happened to be nearby. The nest was enormous. Maybe the watchers have given up.
This is my offering for this week’s Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting the link-up.