After the storm knocked the oak tree through our roof, we couldn’t afford to fix it. We hadn’t gotten around to insuring the house yet. We settled for hope and some sturdy tarps, but we’d still wake up with our mattresses and empty beer cans floating on a couple inches of brackish rainwater some gloomy mornings.
The back rooms disintegrated under fungus and vines, became unusable. Byron was always yelling at some new contractor over his phone. Janine gouged rubbery chunks from her skin.
But Evan brought home a disco ball and set it shining where the TV had been.
Briar Ripley Page lives and writes in Pennsylvania. Their work has previously appeared in Prismatica, Mineral Lit Mag, and other venues. You can find them online at http://briarripleypage.xyz or on Twitter @flameswallower.