Not Attached

The letter arrived taped to the front door, with the same warmth of a dentist’s waiting room.

NOTICE OF VIOLATION

Walter read it once. Then again. Then a third time, slowly and out loud, because there was clearly no way it said what he’d read.

Construction for front porch has been denied. 
Reason for denial: Neighbor has porch, HOA does not permit adjacent houses to have similar style.

Walter turned to look at Marta Keene’s house next door. His only neighbor. Her porch sat there smugly, draped in pastel decorations to commemorate the spring weather and a sign that read Bless This Mess — which felt slightly aggressive.

“So,” Walter said to the letter, “you’re saying I wasn’t the one who bought the house and pays the mortgage?”

That letter never received a response. 
HOA never does.

That night Walter stood in front of his home, hands on hips, and stared at the empty space where a porch clearly belonged. He’d imagined having one for years — the porch swing, lemonade, gentle judgement of passerbys. But now his dreams were crushed all because Marta was there first.

“Well,” Walter muttered. He cracked his knuckles and took a deep breath, “I’m gonna do it anyway.”

He reached into a dusty part of his brain that hadn’t been accessed since a regrettable phase involving capes and community college. Magic was excited and petty — just like Walter was in this moment.

The ground shimmered. The air sparkled like it had secrets. With a soft whoop — as if the universe itself was impressed — a porch appeared. It was perfect. Wide steps. Smooth railings. A cozy rocking chair in front of the window. And the best part?

It floated.

Three inches above the ground. Not touching the house. Not touching anything. Just hovering like a petty thought.

Walter stepped onto it cautiously. The wood didn’t waver at his weight. It was comfortable. And technically unattached.

“Oh,” he smiled, “This is going to ruin someone’s day.”

It didn’t take long.

By dawn, joggers stopped mid-stride and a mail carrier took a photo. One mother asked their child if they too, saw the floating porch, then shook her head when he confirmed its floaty-ness before walking off at a brisk pace. Marta Keene stood on her own mundane porch, staring as if Walter’s had betrayed her.

The HOA arrived by noon, clipboards and panic apparent on each of their faces.

“That…” Brenda flipped through some papers clipped to her board, “is not allowed.” She pushed up the glasses falling down her nose and waited for the other HOA members to chime in.

Walter sipped some lemonade. “Show me where it says floating is illegal.”

Brenda and other HOA members quickly skimmed the agreement once more.

“Regardless, it’s a porch…” Brenda faultered, “the agreement prohibits similar styles next to each other.”

“This porch is definitely a different style. It’s more…spiritually adjacent.”

“It’s a porch though!”

“Yes,” Walter agreed, “an HOA-approved porch.”

The board huddled together, furiously whispering, trying to figure a way out of this loophole.

By sunset, half the neighborhood gathered around Walter’s house. The porch swayed gently as he walked back and forth, speaking to the crowd. Someone applauded. Someone else asked if Walter could make a floating gazebo.

Marta finally spoke from across the bushes. “I hate it,” she said, eyes wide. “But I also kind of love it.”

Walter leaned back in his chair. For once, the HOA had nothing to say. They were too busy staring as the porch bobbed happily beside the house — proof that sometimes the best way to follow the rules is to step three inches above them.

What’s the most normal inconvenience you’ve ever experienced that would absoultely deserve a magickal overreaction? Tell me about it.

This was originally published on Medium; January 2026.
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