I gaze at the sagging wooden beams and cracked stone of the abandoned farmhouse, once our safehouse. With a deep breath, I step through the doorway—and it’s as if I’ve walked through a portal. Time has reversed course. I’m back there. I am bombarded. Yet I stand, letting the memories strike me, pulsars of light—images beyond conscious thought. I feel dizzy, but as it passes, I look around, taking in the dust and debris. What clues could I possibly find after all this time?
Then I notice a footprint in the dust by the entryway— a footprint not mine. A man’s footprint. Who else has been here recently? I tell myself it’s some hiker out exploring, but that doesn’t explain the three diagonal lines chalked on the weathered lintel: the old Hobo symbol we sometimes used, “This is NOT a safe place.”
I’m hosting Prosery today at dVerse. This is part of my ongoing spy series. The prompt line is:
“I am bombarded yet I stand.”
From Adrienne Rich, “Planetarium”