The Cliffs

by J. Courtney Sullivan

a house was a foreign object, invasive to its surroundings. Nature would keep trying to assert its dominance, to force its way in. Walk the aisles of any hardware store and you would know this. Row after row of poisons, traps, and tools, designed to beat back what rightfully belonged.

Sometimes she would spy a family of deer or wild turkeys. It happened much more often these days. It seemed like condos and developments were being built on every inch of land in the area. The animals had nowhere to go but into people’s backyards, where they would be remarked upon, photographed, at first. Then later seen as a nuisance.

History could only ever be as meaningful as those alive were willing to make it.

Painting still life was a form of contemplation. She could not paint the human form because she didn’t want to be in a room with another human while she painted.