It Grows

“The mold’s back” a quiet mutter slipped out under his breath, gaze fixed in a dark corner of the cluttered garage. Behind an old bicycle, a rack of seldom used tools, under a pile of half empty dried up paint cans and dissorted items, the mold clung to the wall, small, yet it’s blackened tendrils stretched out eagerly, slowly.
The man turned around and walked out of the dusty stale air hanging in the room into the squinting rays of the high spring sun glaring down from above. Humid air twirling about carrying the smell of pollen and mud by.

A dining room table rested as he walked by, piles of unopened mail and documents scattered over its faded tablecloth, shaded light seeping in through curtains pulled across the wide bay window. The man sat down at the single chair pulled up the kitchen counter and slid a journal to himself. Scrawling down some thoughts, for posterity, he frowned disappointedly as his eyes shifted to the oven sitting against the wall to the garage.
Angered scraping and sighs escaped from the oven as he dragged it out to shine a dismal flashlight behind. The mold, sticky and flowing, grew out of the wall, a tendril stretching from the seething mass to the back of the oven sagged low and snapped, a squelching echoed out moistly.