Mamaw's House: A Short Story

Moreover, Jules’ dialogue is the primary audio within this scene displaying his utmost significance. Jules takes the lead through his use of irony and insulting commentary directed towards Brett. For instance, Jules interrupts Brett by stating “My name’s Pit. And you ain’t talkin’ your way out of this shit.” The use of pun suggests that Brett is in great deal of trouble which is emphasised with his direct way of speech that is loud in tone.

His childhood home is one of the few in the neighborhood that hadn 't been abandoned after the incident. When families fled, fluidly like a stream of grief and fear, his father had stood his ground at the house he bought for his family years ago. Almost nobody wanted to move into abandoned perfectly painted houses, polished with vibrant hydrangea bushes and stained with ink-black tragedy. The property value had plunged like a bird shot from the sky, and the area was now a ghost town.

It was a distinguished neighborhood, stately houses with sprawling porches made for sipping cold drinks and entertaining guests. Fourteen thirty-seven Twain Street was nestled at the far end the street. The house actually looked out of place when compared to the neighborhood, if it could even be considered a part of the neighborhood. The house was located roughly a quarter mile up the street from the closest neighbor, undiscernible from the woods that surrounded it. I stopped at the gate and regarded the worn house. It was made in the same style as the others in the neighborhood, but something about it made it different. It had character. The paint wasn’t peeling, but it had weathered the long hot sun for many a day and it had begun to form lines, giving the house the impression of a wrinkled and withered old

Upon entry through the threshold of the bubbling slate grey front door of my run-down, colonial style home into the marshmallow warmth of the living room, all was silent except for the crackling of dying embers breathing their last breath in the soot covered 1991 Jotul wood burning stove. The family room remained just as it had been left with not a single object disturbed in the time passed. The walls were still the same shade of elephant skin gray that they had been for the past ten years, as were the worn midnight black sofas. Even the cherry red microfiber dog toy remained sprawled out in the same position; forgotten. The chestnut coffee table, around which the room was center was still covered with the defined creases of my palm engraved into it. However, among the coffee table, I caught a glimpse of something peculiar out of the corner of my eye. The usually neat pile of select magazine and newspaper articles had the edge

Even when the sky cried, the town was perfect. The weekly manicured grass welcomed the unexpected warm summer rain. Rainbows of chalk drawings washed away in dark pools, and even with whole world seemingly turning dark, the perfect white trim on the houses shown, and the old gas street lights illuminated the pristine street. In the beige house, behind the white picket fence and the red door gathered a group of APT moms in the kitchen, hosting weekly book club. My sad reflection in the window stared back at me, visible to no one. I laughed quietly to myself when I saw the very familiar group. Making small talk at the head of the table was Mrs. Jackson, I had gone to school with her son forever. Funny, I didn’t see her at the funeral. Chipping away at her manicure was Mrs. Webster, our conservative Girl Scout leader whose daughter Lillian never liked me much. It was a quite diverse group, some sporting intricate hairdos thick with hairspray and pins, sipping their soy lattes perfectly poised, conversing only slightly

The sky was getting darker every second, as my long blonde hair was blown from my pale face. I took a deep breath and smiled a little. The cool, crisp air was refreshing from the heated and stuffy house. Making my way from the warm and coziness that lie behind the door, I headed towards the old buildings that surrounded my house. There were three of them. One was an old one room house that looked as if it wanted to fall over. The second, that lie adjacent to our garage, was a rotting shed filled with empty bottles and garbage that was there long before we had moved onto the

The first night in a new home is always an exhilarating and rejuvenating experience. At least, when you know the safeties and dangers involved in that house’s past. That is what Yeager Pitts had begun to elaborate in his mind on his first night in the lonely Griswold Plantation house. As the floorboards creek and the winds shriek, the new homeowner comes to ask himself if the new abode is truly safe. The black shutters and peeling grey paint begged to differ, and yet on the day he saw the "for sale” sign he thought of nothing more than the endless possibilities.

Earlier on Mrs. Chipley brung me to breakfast and then we started driving. Now we are arriving at my Aunt Sarah’s house. As we get out of the car I stare at the house with a terrified look. As I walk up the broken stone stairs then I ring the doorbell with a sense of fear.

divider staples plus a few nails, chips of plywood, by most records two by fours, and approximately two by twos. You will in like manner oblige the chicken coop fencing. Confirm that you have the turns for portals and entryways. You will oblige a roofing material like tar paper as well. You may even use house sort shingles for your chicken house housetop. The degree of your chicken house is going to depend on upon what number of chickens you have. For every chicken, you ought to gather a settling box. No chicken is going to grant its home to another.

This was the exact place where my mother grew into a women. I’m chomping on my food as we coast farther into the neighborhood. When I glance at my surroundings, my eyes turn into wide saucers. I was captivated by what had managed to happen over the years. It was as if a spirit has blew on the neighborhood and knocked everything down. You would think a storm caused this disarray, but this is what crime and corruption does communities. The food weighed in my hand, for I was no longer hungry, just in complete shock. The air was eerie and uncomfortably silent as we turned the corner. My mother’s gasp breaks the silence and I snap my head in her direction. “This was my friend’s house! I would come over to watch movies and eat popcorn in her basement,” my mom moans, getting emotional. This house was charred, allowing red bricks, scorched wood, and glass to collect in a heaping pile, leaving only the chimney standing. The more we drove around this neighborhood, the more it looked like an abandoned warzone then a tight-knit community that once caused my mother so much

The car suddenly stopped and jolted me from my sleep. Disoriented, I looked around and tried to make sense of where I was and what I was doing. Over to my left, I saw my sister doing the same. Tall, blue, connected houses surrounded us and we were parked in the middle of a pristine parking lot. Green, luscious lawns sat in front of those blue houses. A gigantic tree surrounded by beautiful multicolored flowers sat to the left of a dumpster and a wooden sign with white script on it. “The Pointe at Stoneview,” I read to myself.

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I let out a bloodcurdling scream as Mrs. Allen shoves me into the ground. I close my eyes and then I fall. It feels like forever but I guess it’s only a few feet. “Brooke!,” I desperately scream. “I’m right here,” she whispers. I hug my best friend close and open my eyes. I look for light and I find a string hanging from the dirt ceiling. I pull it and I can finally see the room I am sitting in. I cringe as I feel the frigid, soggy dirt floor I am sitting on. I notice the rotting pieces of wood just barely holding this little dirt room together. There is a small wooden door on one side that I desperately want to push open, but Brooke holds me back. I want to go home where everything is familiar. I don’t want to be here in a place where nothing is right. It’s small and cramped and I can feel

Then we departed on a misty morning and entered on to a sinuous dirt track. After a bumpy ride, we arrived at the antiquated farmhouse. Soon as I step outside, I instantly smelled the summery scent of flowers and a mob of bees humming around the petals. However, the sultry air started to desiccate my skin. Suddenly, I saw an archaic wash-out wooden barn with a discolored metal roof attached on the hillside. Then, Uncle Bob gave me an interminable tour of his hefty farmland. Far beyond the horizon, I saw rows of rice fields which were irrigated from spring water of the neighboring mountains. Also, flocks of chickens freely roamed around the marshland.

Clark and his sister Martha had moved to this rather small unknown town hidden in the woods called Robertsville. It had one food market, a gas station, and only two thousand residents. Their school was barely the size of their petite secluded house. Before they moved, about a year or so ago, Clark's family lived in a large residential area. This change was a large contrast compared to their new home. They had