Shrinking House
Short Fiction: I came across an elderly man at the local sandwich store. He had swollen ankles and thin gray hair. His skin was white like paper, with the occasional splotch on his face. I made eye contact with him and smiled somewhat kindly, motioning for him to come sit at my table. He didn’t smile but nodded and came over. I asked him if he lived around here, and he said he lived off of MacArthur Boulevard, near the cross section of High Street. I knew this area well. I took casual carpool every day at that corner, and had been to a dinner recently at a house just down the street. Anyways, I asked the elderly man what his name was. He said “Harold” and I introduced myself. He asked me what I did, and I told him I worked as a carpenter at a lumberyard in the hills. He could tell I hated it. I explained to him it wasn't working with metal that bothered me, but the boss and how he treated his workers. Regardless, Harold listened. He told me he enjoyed taking photographs and had t