THE TATTERED CEILING

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Flash Fiction Sept. 16, 2021

Beneath the tattered ceiling that shades off its white specks of ceiling dust every second, they sit. Each to their own laptop, each to their own world – typing, typing, typing.

They live a good life actually, if you don’t take the tattered ceiling into consideration. They eat, they dance, they sing, they shit, they fuck, they laugh, they cry. They love.

Once in a while, they fight. It happens only once in a while, but those times are the worst. In those times, they sting and bite and tear and rip their souls apart.

The tattered ceiling shades off its white specks of ceiling dust more during these times. The white specks fly onto their heads, onto their clothes, onto their bodies, and the tattered ceiling wishes they would stop fighting for a moment and say:

Hey, I think it is time we stopped fighting and fixed that tattered ceiling.

But the moment never comes; so when they ignore the wise saying and go to bed angry, and fall asleep on the metallic bed with the rigid new mattress, the tattered ceiling continues shedding off its white specks, continues shedding parts of its soul, continues crying.

The walls are pink, or a light purple. The tattered ceiling loves the color on them. It brightens the room, makes it feel alive, makes people forget about the tattered ceiling. That is until the white specks fall on them, then they look up and say:

Hey, that ceiling is shedding off parts of its soul. Could someone please fix it?

But someone never does. So the tattered ceiling continues its silent weeping.

Sometimes, there are more people than two beneath the tattered ceiling. When there are more than two, there is always more talking, more laughing, more people to receive bits and bits of the white specks.

At those times,  the music is usually louder. And the people too.  And there is a lot of dancing. And there is a lot of drinking. And there is a lot of fucking on the toilet seat. And there is a lot of fighting.

The tattered ceiling wishes less people will come. The tattered ceiling enjoys the low sensual music, the rebellious rock music, the unlearned tunes of the guitar.

 Enjoys seeing her read a book, him playing a game. Enjoys watching her cook, watching him dance stupidly, watching them squabble as to who will win Monopoly.

The tattered ceiling enjoys watching them loving each other,  but what it enjoys more is waiting for someone to finally fix it.

Someone to finally erase Tattered from its name. Someone to finally call it by the name it wants: Ceiling.

Just Ceiling.

by Amanda Nechesa 27

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