Darkhenge

E. EADHA: POPLAR

She came downstairs one day and pushed a notebook into my hand.

“What do you think, Mac?” she said, nervous. It wasn’t like Chloe to be nervous.

I don’t think any of us had any idea she was writing stories; she kept them secret, up in her room. I lit a cigarette and sat in the armchair and turned the pages—later she complained the paper smelled of smoke.

She has talent. Well, I told her so, but then children’s imaginations are vivid. Perhaps her mind is lost in those stories, their transformations and treacheries.

Dan came five minutes ago. A gale’s raging on the downs, and there’s still no Rob.

As I was talking to him the window slammed so hard we jumped. I went over. The glass had shattered.

It crunched under my feet like diamonds.

Leaves and ivy gusted inside.