Hole in the Wall
She stared out the ventilation grate at the gloomy, shadowed street. Bits of colored glass and paper hung from the grate, dull and lifeless, jostled occasionally by the breeze of a passing figure. They all passed without noticing, too engrossed in their busy lives to pay heed to a hole in the wall. The grate was the only pretty thing about her hovel. Even that was fading away, falling to rust and decay. It had been years since the walls had seen whitewash, and they were covered in thick, gray-green mold. She liked to draw faces in the mold, and pretend they were her friends - or her enemies. Juvenile, perhaps, but it passed the time. It began to rain, great giant drops of sorrow for unlucky commuters. She liked the rain. Even dirt and mold looked pretty, when they were wet. Water splashed onto the hanging trinkets. Soon the papers, soaked completely, started to drip off their strings, until mushy little runnels of paper goo decorated the moldy wall with trails of color. Down they ran, down to the floor, and across it, growing longer with every second. They began to spread, coating the entire floor with a bright-hued mosaic. They climbed up the walls, painting the ceiling in garish red and yellow, green and blue, replacing the crusting mold with magnificent swirl. Gradually, the rain stopped, and the clouds parted, releasing the sun from its watery prison. Tendrils of sunlight crept through the grate, illuminating part of the room, leaving parts in shadow. The sun shone through the shards of glass hanging from the grate, casting shattered light across the room. She sat quietly, in the middle of it all, and she thought: Nothing interesting ever happens, in a hole in the wall.