Near the local high school, on Greaves St, runs a line of classic English semi-detached houses. As I walk up from the junction with the main road, I pass the conjoined houses at numbers 1 and 3, then 5 and 7, then 9 and 11.
Where I'd expect to find numbers 13 and 15, there's just an empty field. Not a huge plot (these are English houses after all) but there's definitely no house here. As I pass, my gaze runs over the grass to the tree line at the back of where the garden would've been.
Looking back, I see a small paved area at the front of number 13's plot, perhaps enough space to park a mid-sized car. And I see a full set of council-issued trash bins, with new stickers stating "13 Greaves St": cardboard, aluminium, general waste. This empty plot... pays council tax?
I keep walking up the street, until I hear a heavy door close somewhere behind me. Glancing behind, I see no-one outside their house; I stop for a second.
The lid on the cardboard bin at number 13 opens, and closes again. I hear ...something land inside as it closes: beer can? The sound of the door comes again. The sun continues to shine on the empty grass field.
Whoever, or whatever, it is that lives in the impossible house at number 13: they can expect a letter from the council about sorting their trash.
[Inspired by a real empty field where a number 13 should be, on a street in my town, that has labelled bins outside]
#microfiction