One Night

The girl dreamed polka dots covered the walls of her plexi-glass cube. Polka dots that became holes as she slept and transported her, like esophaguses swallowing, into a secret neighborhood. When she arrived, there were open lots over-grown with wild wheat and burdock, in her hand, a rudimentary wooden flute. Dark wind blew the long grasses waved. Uncertain, she played the little instrument and hoped its sound would keep her company. But instead of pitch, the flute blew houses onto the forlorn street. Each one designed and constructed exactly like the next. Solid colors, painted inside and out differentiated the houses and moved her to explore them. Once inside, her being soaked-up the houses' stories and she even became different inhabitants so that the stories were her own stories and the houses her own houses.