The Glass House

A story by Gracie Moore

Illustration by Ayshe-Mira Yashin

In the crevice of my mind lives a family of outlaws in a glass house.

As the moon rises the family creeps about their life in the flickering jewel. Mother and father lift the children to dance around the room, till their small circle of the world pulses with life. The mother whispers tales of traipsing through the arches of the sky and under the curling fists of waves. She smiles softly. She lies. The father sits in the corner and covers his ears. The children stain the walls with fingerprints and small hot breaths. The house glows and swells to hold their whole childhood. 

As sun stretches its warm fingers over the forest, the family crawls underground and the darkness wraps around them. The children shudder slightly with snores. The mother wakes when a leaf falls or a bird sings, waiting for the clamor of chains. They are hunted. She built them a prison of glass. The father stares into the black, memories rustling under the skin. His ghosts are hunting him. He longs to forget, to let the glass house envelop his whole world. 

As the sun tumbles down burning, the family emerges, with sleep fogged haunted eyes. 

As the rain waterfalls down the glass canopy the family watches, all perfectly still, voices caught in their throats. There is an awful sort of beauty to it. 

In one clamoring moment, I grew up. The glass house became the window seat of my neighbor's secluded home. I carry the mother, father, and children in the shadows of my mind.