Check out the prompt here, Arcians, to join in on the fun. I chose the third option, to write about the above image.
Rachael reached forward to touch the portal again. Portal. So strange to put a label to it finally. To the window that wasn’t exactly a window anymore. Her window, as she had called it.
Each day, for the past year, she had visited the abadoned alley behind her house to look at the wall no one else could be bothered to look at. It was just her, day after day, save for a stray black cat she brought tins of food for on Tuesdays when he showed up. Today was Friday. And it was summer. The tall, thin space above the tight alley foretold rain.
The window–no portal–would show her scenes of every day life and events throughout history. Last Saturday it had been a war ball; a month ago she had peeked into Henry VIII’s dining hall. It was a one way window, she the silent observer, a ghost looking into other worlds, unable to communicate or give warning or greeting. Sometimes she hated it, but more often she loved it. She could go anywhere in the world, at any time. But it was up to the window what she saw.
And today, the window was rotten. It looked like broken glass with static waves running across it, like her grandmother’s old television that never picked up a signal right. She threw a rock at it in anger, expecting it to bounce back off harmlessly. The rock went through. She wasn’t expecting that.
Now what was she going to do?