David Drury lives in Seattle, Washington. His fiction has been broadcast on National Public Radio, published in Best American Nonrequired Reading, ZYZZYVA and elsewhere. He has a master's degree in Christian Studies and been kicked out of every casino in Las Vegas. Read more at daviddruryauthor.com.
On the middle floor of a grand old hotel was mounted a certain four-paned window—just one window in a long row of windows, set among many other rows. Each window in the old hotel was exactly alike, and in this way the window hardly felt unique. Nevertheless, as the window gazed out over the rooftops of the quiet valley and townsfolk hanging rooftop laundry gazed back, the window took some comfort.
Over many years, the town grew into a modern city. Eventually skyscrapers swallowed up the old hotel. High walls and billboards and expressways drained all direct light. Smog and noise drowned out any remaining sense of peace. The window now faced a drab office building through the buzzing light of a putrid yellow alley. When the window was painted shut at its edges by order of the building’s owner, its gaze turned inward. The window had only a plain room to look upon with a TV that was left on for weeks at a time. A DVD logo bounced around on the black screen day in and day out. When guests stayed in the room, they also sat around watching the bouncing logo.
The window had one last hope. Each day for many months, it strained at its frame loosen itself from the surrounding wall. One day, with great effort and a loud crack, the window and frame managed to split away. The window nosed its way, corner first, down between the windows one floor below. The hotel wall closed over the hole it left behind. The window pressed down through each of the rows as if it was a raft moving through a sea of leaves. The window slid to street level and curved to join the ground without breaking. Glass is a liquid after all, and never more so than in times of desire.
The window, flush with the ground, passed from alley to sidewalk, taking care to avoid any passing feet or wheels that might shatter it. The Window darted through traffic and raced down the highway. It darted into the wheat fields, feeling its speed. It glided over mountains, and skimmed the surface of the ocean, where it became practically invisible to the boats and sea life it passed.
Freedom was nice, but the window was lonely. So the window joined land again, and as it came into a new town, sure enough, there it was—an immense windowless wall facing the town square and the mountains beyond. The window glided through the town square and curled to join the wall. It had found a new home.
But the window did not simply pick one spot and come to rest. It kept moving—up, down, diagonally, one side to another, ricocheting to each furthest edge and back. A crowd began to gather below, watching with astonishment, and in this way the window met the gaze of the people. And nobody could have guessed that the first time, and every time after, the bouncing window managed to slide perfectly into one of the corners of the building before rebounding away again, the townspeople would turn to one another and erupt in cheers.
Over many years, the town grew into a modern city. Eventually skyscrapers swallowed up the old hotel. High walls and billboards and expressways drained all direct light. Smog and noise drowned out any remaining sense of peace. The window now faced a drab office building through the buzzing light of a putrid yellow alley. When the window was painted shut at its edges by order of the building’s owner, its gaze turned inward. The window had only a plain room to look upon with a TV that was left on for weeks at a time. A DVD logo bounced around on the black screen day in and day out. When guests stayed in the room, they also sat around watching the bouncing logo.
The window had one last hope. Each day for many months, it strained at its frame loosen itself from the surrounding wall. One day, with great effort and a loud crack, the window and frame managed to split away. The window nosed its way, corner first, down between the windows one floor below. The hotel wall closed over the hole it left behind. The window pressed down through each of the rows as if it was a raft moving through a sea of leaves. The window slid to street level and curved to join the ground without breaking. Glass is a liquid after all, and never more so than in times of desire.
The window, flush with the ground, passed from alley to sidewalk, taking care to avoid any passing feet or wheels that might shatter it. The Window darted through traffic and raced down the highway. It darted into the wheat fields, feeling its speed. It glided over mountains, and skimmed the surface of the ocean, where it became practically invisible to the boats and sea life it passed.
Freedom was nice, but the window was lonely. So the window joined land again, and as it came into a new town, sure enough, there it was—an immense windowless wall facing the town square and the mountains beyond. The window glided through the town square and curled to join the wall. It had found a new home.
But the window did not simply pick one spot and come to rest. It kept moving—up, down, diagonally, one side to another, ricocheting to each furthest edge and back. A crowd began to gather below, watching with astonishment, and in this way the window met the gaze of the people. And nobody could have guessed that the first time, and every time after, the bouncing window managed to slide perfectly into one of the corners of the building before rebounding away again, the townspeople would turn to one another and erupt in cheers.
