Dorothy’s window with a whoosh rushed the room—sucked towards dog and girl from the force of the storm outside. The dog was so scared he didn’t even bark. Dorothy’s window ripped out from its stable duty as a barrier between two realms: inside and outside. The corner hit her forehead, right above her left eye. The force of her window knocked her onto the bed. She gasped and put her hand up to her skull. Everything twirled around in the center of the storm: dirt and soberly gray wooden toy top and the old soberly gray sturdy plates from the kitchen built for exactly this event. The plates didn’t break during the storm. They spun around and around the little room of the house until the whole place tilted. Everything around her was gray, gray, gray. But now it was all transformed into a howling void. When she was hit, she fell onto the bed. The bed raised up off the ground in an awkward flight with the young woman rubbing her temple and muttering about the dog—she didn’t want to lose him.

Dorothy’s window was gray too. Gray and distressed from the sun. This was her bedroom window. She often looked outside when she was inside and her primary place for reflection was its rather comforting square shape. Fingerprints coated and traced the transparent glass; insect smudges also gave it a texture not unlike the wood sill left to sit baking in the sun—no curtains. For she wanted to see outside—past the pigpen and muddy trail to the clothesline and perhaps get lost out there and not be able, for a time, to find her way home. Past the fields and forward leaning (she always projected herself past the horizon), she would imagine a world just on the other side of where her vision stopped.

Yet, when the house came down with a thud and at the same time as light as a feather, she just shuddered once, twice, and blinked her eyes as if to clear them of some coating—she imagined a chocolate pudding and the layer on the top that peels off leaving the moist creamy texture exposed. Her eyes became very clear indeed as she noticed the change of light. And these shimmering colors suddenly erased the monochromatic surroundings. They left her nearly blinded while she struggled to apprehend.

She wasn’t prepared for color. She believed it to be vivid, too vivid to bear. She suddenly needed to see someone, anyone that could comfort her and make her believe she was real.

She said: “Hello? Hello? Are you there?”

She heard a long sigh, at first she thought it was her dog, but no, he was just looking up at her, expectant with tail wagging. It came from the hole where her window used to be. And there on the other side were flowers of deep reds and purple, and bright bright yellow.

“Hello? Hello? Are you there?”

A voice: “She’s dead.”

And she believed it was herself that was, must be, dead. After all, there was the house falling from the sky. The weighty thud that was at the same time as light as a feather. She must have perished. But now, she was here; dead or not there was that voice: “Hello, hello? Are you there?”

Blinking she exited house, but not before picking up her dog and stroking his head softly—what she always thought of as the sea of his fur rose and fell with her fingers. Amazed by the bright bright yellow, deep purple, reds and other vibrating pops of color, she said, “Hello, hello? Are you there?”

A woman appeared utterly translucent and shimmery. “You killed her,” she said in a way that her voice sounded like bells ringing outside on a clear day.

Dorothy responded, “Killed who?”

“A woman crossing the road. She never knew what hit her.” The translucent figure shook her head then shrugged, “She wasn’t well liked, my sister.”

Dorothy shivered with a small prick of apprehension. Dorothy thought she must be dead from the storm. But what do the dead do? Do they walk outside? Carry on a conversation about the house that crashed as if it committed a kind of vehicular homicide? Cry? Look out the window, her window, so gray and cracked? What should she do?

“My sister,” said the woman moving closer, “never knew what hit her since she was always striking out.” She swept past a bright blue flower that Dorothy had never seen before and cupped a hand around it before moving by. “She never saw me and she certainly didn’t see you.” The woman’s thin fingers brushed Dorothy’s cheek and Dorothy felt a tear drop from her right eye. It fell so hard that she thought for sure it dented her cheek, furrowing a river running down the fullness of her face. A finger brushed the wet away. Dorothy blushed as the woman, all shimmery, kissed her forehead leaving a gleaming mark that couldn’t be washed off. “This is for protection,” she said.

Dorothy, not knowing what to say, murmured, “Why, thank you.”

“You might meet others. Some will be good and some will be bad.” She paused, “Or you may just look and see.”

The woman disappeared not so much as leaving one shimmery remainder behind. All that translucence was gone. Dorothy felt alone and ached. She longed for her window. The aching in her head was a reminder of that square opening onto worlds. Perhaps she was at her window now after all—perhaps this was all just a dream. But, really, it wasn’t. Not even close. Surely she was dead and somehow became one of those worlds she had observed in the window. She frowned as the dog licked her face like a juicy steak.

Here was a choice. She could go on an adventure in search of her lost home. Home was different from the house; home was people doing work and sometimes making eye contact warily with one another. She would meet others, good and bad, and make her way home. It would be a journey. Instead, she turned around and entered the gray house, disappearing from those deep reds and purple and bright bright yellow.

She began to look for the window. It wasn’t on the bed or next to it on the creaky floor that was amazingly still intact after the crash. The space where the window was wedged peered onto a long cobbled road bright bright yellow. She would sit and stare at the road until she knew if she were dead or not. It wasn’t clear at all how she would figure it out. But, she would try. Besides, she preferred the window from the inside—outside was just space with no frame.

Where was the window?

Perhaps it was outside somehow. Reluctantly she went back out the door, letting the dog go and he trotted at a fast clip. She circled the house trying to ignore the glaring color surrounding her.

And then she happened upon the feet. These strange feet that curled into a curlicue at the toes. Dorothy took a deep breath and rubbed the bump where her window had hit. The feet suddenly withered and disappeared.

That gave her a start. That was dead. Dead was there and she was standing here. Of course, she wasn’t dead—her own feet didn’t curl up and then wither away. So, perhaps life had won out. She didn’t feel relief like she felt like one ought. Instead, she wanted that window with its smudges and wear. She wanted to look through it and imagine going down that bright bright road. Imagine was the key to the whole thing. She didn’t actually want to do it, she merely wanted to imagine doing it. She would crouch on the floor with her arms crossed over and flopped on the sill. Her skirt would spread over her legs, a blanket cool to the touch. She might look at the clouds and see another space away from her. She looked and looked until she could see no more. That is what she would do with her window.

Then a mean one appeared. She was green. Dorothy saw her and turned quickly away, but it was too late.

Two shoes were lying where the feet once were, before they withered away and vanished. The mean one saw them and lunged. Something stopped her motion and she froze straining towards them. “Those are mine. You’re a killer.”

Dorothy somehow knew to go pick up the shoes and put them on. They were silvery like the translucent woman from earlier. They felt funny, too tight and yet loose, and magical—she could tell they were imbued with authority.

The mean one said: “How dare you!”

Dorothy muttered, “I’m very sorry.”

The mean one said: “Sorry is not enough.”

Dorothy ran back inside her house. The frozen woman watched her go and shouted, “I’ll get you!” Dorothy ran inside and hid in the small kitchen off her bedroom. There was the window! It was leaning against the stove. The glass was intact!

Dorothy, no longer thinking of the green woman, hugged the window close. She was protected and brave. Secure and free. She heard her dog barking at the mean one and whistled for him to come. He did and reared up like a stallion. He was excited to see the window. Dorothy thought the little creature liked looking out, but not having to go anywhere when it was too hot or too cold. She carried the window to her bedroom and slid it right into the opening. It was too easy.

Perhaps she was dead. No, the curlicue feet were dead. Not her, not her. She kicked off the shoes and ignored the mean one’s screams. She then knelt on the floor as if going into prayer. Dorothy’s window filled the room with bright bright yellow light reflecting off the road. She watched those cobbled bricks not wanting to walk upon them even if she could go home. Here she would stay until the moon rose and set and the sun rose and set and then the moon again and so on forever.

She pressed her lips and nose against the window. It was cool to the touch like her skirt fanned out on the floor. She was breathing. There was that much. She felt her dog’s nose, wet on her cheek. She was alive. There she would stay: Dorothy was safe inside with her window. Endlessly sitting she knew the road and the clouds and the frozen mean one were outside. Here but there.

Sitting at her window was familiar. She felt mildly content and sad for her own mildness. She decided to stay alive or dead. She decided against the journey.

She whispered, “Hello, hello? Are you there?” Even if someone replied, she wouldn’t have moved away from her window. No, she sits still and quiet with the strange shoes that could take her home scattered on the floor behind her. She wasn’t looking for home or anything like that. She was just looking and looking.

Dorothy’s window sparkled in the garish light and she vowed never to leave.

# # #

Rachel Joseph’s short stories, poetry, and plays are published in journals ranging from North American Review and Chiron Review to Kenyon Review Online. Her novella “The Man in the Trees” is a shortlisted finalist for the 2017 William Faulkner-William Wisdom competition. Additionally, she was a finalist for the 2017 Arts & Letters Drama Prize, a semi-finalist for the 2017 Elixir Press Fiction Award, and finalist for the 2017 Hudson Prize.

Photo: Mystic Art Design