Creatures of the attic

Over time it had become evident that in a city as vast as this one, one could not navigate through the concrete anthill that was New York City without a view from above—whether that meant standing on a dumpster, someone’s entryway steps, or on top of a traffic light. This city was all about the perspective, and much like any other day, its streets would spring to life. Overflown with taxis and buses yellow and red, the avenues waited as everything made its turn – cars, motorbikes, cyclists. The sidewalks were no less busier, as crowds of people surged as if within their own lanes running in and out of stores and cafes, rushing to their next meeting, huddling to cross the street. Honking, shoving, and conversing could be heard all throughout New York, the city which never slept.

This one brick building was no exception, as it stood completely indifferent from its neighboring brownstones on a corner of Houston Street, as still and annoyed by the city's rush as others like it. On its very top floor, up the polished and strained whitewood stairs, past all the coated white doorways with silver plated numbers on them and brick wall corridors drowned solely in beige coloring stood what was the last doorway, wooden, splintered and yellow. It led to an attic flat formerly owned by a local antique shop, which had used it as a storage - somewhere to store away the remainder of models gone unsold, models that had exceeded their stay on the dusty shelves and faded glass displays of the shop and had earned the displeasure of being moved up to the attic, a dreaded fate for any item forced to give its place up for another.

However, something everyone had missed, the customers, owners, even the soon-to-greet appraiser, was that not all things brought up there were broken, outdated or unwanted like thought, but perhaps just too prideful and conscious to sit on a dull ledge in a window display feeling like there were a greater purpose to serve than to be bought – maybe sometime be the crucial, louder yell desired amongst mere, dull whispers or feel destined to sail over the deeper depths of morally grey interior coloring instead of blending and drowning within. To some, such drives and desires, callings for a greater purpose could mean that some, only few of the things stored above in the attic could have actually just been alive, possessing a soul, a will, and maybe still did.

But only to those who looked. Such things stay unseen to a bored eye, such scenarios - unimaginable and impossible, therefore inconsiderable, and so they remain statues.

There turned out to be many such singulars, and as time passed, the corners of the apartment became only denser, and the room – crammed, with mountains of boxes stacked upon each other, some slightly grazing the low ceiling. Soon after the business declared bankruptcy, a result of the battle lost to the newfound modern minimalism, and so upon agreement the attic had to be moved out, and the purposeful, destined art, decor and furniture, put up for a yard sale at best.

Except that it couldn't.

So many years had the antiques just sat there untouched and pristine, never thought to be given a second chance, had no one noticed they had started to embed themselves into the hot, moist wood, gradually becoming a part of the attic? No one had ever paid any attention to the things stored above, as they were believed to be incapable of intrigue, even less so attention, so how could have anyone noticed the antiques themselves were the culprits of crime? Removing the antiques posed a threat of collapse in the floors below, so it was decided to leave them as may be, sealed in time, gradually collecting seas of dust, flies and pigeon nests, up until now.