My House and Memories

What was once a beautiful but small lawn with grass is now a patch of dead grass with dirt exposing itself under the grass. What was once the creaky barn doors are completely destroyed, with broken glass on the ground on the outside, leading to the inside. What was once the living room where I had spent so much time watching television and playing games with my siblings, now has its carpet completely torn up, walls indented, and closet in complete shambles with light gleaming sharply through the holes of the closet from holes that were made by vandals who never knew the true value of the humble abode that I used to reside in. My old home, since being lived in by me and my family has since been abandoned by the family that we had entrusted the house to previously. Now the house just stays there, an eerie empty shell of what it used to be. A place where I was safe and happy, now a dark and scary place that no one deserves to live in, a place that humans have indeed used well, so well that there is nothing left of what it used to be. That image of the house was the last I saw it, back in 2010, It is possible now that the house had since been destroyed, with the memories that have been carved into the walls, fireplace, windows, closets, and bedrooms, are now nothing more but a blur of destroyed objects that will one day be removed, as people pass by the home that once was will never be able to see its clarity, but instead will only be able to see the blur of colors protruding from the exterior of the house, or perhaps the brown of the barn like doors, or the patches of green still rising from the dead grass that surrounds it, until eventually, it simply disappears completely invisible to the city that used it ever so

l know not how it was – but, with the first glimpse of that building, a spirit … I looked upon the mere house, and the simple land scape features of the domain – upon the bleak walls – upon the vacant eye – like windows – upon a few ranks edges – and upon a few white of decayed trees with an a utter depression of soul.

My parents moved in here before I was born, this house was all I ever knew, and yet it felt like I knew nothing about it. I had always known that it was there, it was always in the back of my mind. My parents said it was there when they bought the place, they said it gave the house “character”, that it didn't open anyways. It was this detail that made me so curious about it.

“Well, hello to you, too. No need to thank me for giving up my precious sleep waiting for you to come out of Recovery; it was my pleasure.” I thought she looked remarkably good considering everything she’d been through.

As Cora stepped off the elevator, the echo of her pointy heels ceased as they were absorbed by the thick floor. The halls of the hotel were heavily dated with lush green and tan patterned carpet, low dingy ceilings, and thick floral wallpaper. She turned the corner of the long, narrow hallway and laid eyes on the room. All of the doors in the hotel were the same shade of glossy tan with a silver hey reader above the handle except 23B. This room seemed to be untouched for years, the door was made of rotted splintering wood with 23B painted on the front in red paint.

Sweat was pouring down my forehead. My palms were sticky. They were slowly creeping closer. I had to think quickly!

On a rainy afternoon, A man is sitting at a diner. He’s well dressed, wearing a blue button-down shirt and grey pants with suspenders. His face is looking down at the table with a zoned out expression, his hands are clasped together as he fiddles with his thumbs nervously. He looks up and observes his surrounding. The diner was decorated in vibrant colours of red, blue and yellow, however, the lighting and the cloudy weather made the diner look sterile. He hears the entrance door behind him open. He anxiously turns around to see who it is, a girl -in her late twenties, early thirties- enters through the door, the rain had drenched her, her blue dress stuck wet on her statuesque body and her brown hair hung soaking and untidy. The water from

A groan- that you could only imagine a Bear making- came from my throat as I stretched my stiff muscles, wiping absentmindedly at my face. Something cold and wet spread across my hand and I looked down, slightly relieved at not seeing blood. I drew the jacket aside and cringed at the drool that had pooled on the book's

Places are more than less often full of memories. Rooms have narratives that can be told through the items and furniture they contain. These narratives are often overlooked and not thought about, especially in places where one does not want to spend a particularly large amount of time. Rooms speak, even though we often don’t want to listen, or don’t want to know. Basements are often like this, full of broken thing and memories, knee-deep castaways, childhood toys and holiday lights. The basement in my childhood home is this way, completely divided into then and now; simply, entirely, depressing.

I nodded and collected my bags before heading to the direction I hoped my dorm was. It was about ten minutes later when I realized I was lost. Great. My arms were tired, I was hungry, and I wanted to sleep.

There is a place that is a constant reminder of my childhood. This place is my room. Though it has changed since I was born it still reminds me of the time I spent there as a kid.

Where would one go if they could visit any location they desired? Would it be a tropical resort, a foreign country? If I could visit any location in the world I would be at home because I could sleep and relax if I wanted. Home is where the heart is and my hearts guiding me to my physical house, which isn't necessarily a bad thing as theres nothing wrong with spending time with family. My house is located in a more rural area so because of this my 5 senses are constantly being used.

Elena's eyes fluttered open, looking up at the ceiling as images flashed through her head. Fragments of the dream fading away yet the memory burned deep into her mind. She leisurely turned her head towards the nightstand, then to the window, a heavy blanket of frost hovering around her window. A deathlike silence lingers in the air, she's home. The concept of home seeming all so foreign, as this wasn’t exactly what she would call home. When her grandparents dropped the suitcases in the house, everything felt so empty. Elena had expected to see her mom in the kitchen, her dad in the living room with his face stuffed into a new book. Yet no one was there, they weren’t going to be. A flood of panic surged through her, feeling complete and utterly immersed in the darkness. This was Evasmos, Thessaloniki. She slept in the same bedroom for years. The floor boards creaked in all the same places, a dent in the closet where Mike had slammed into after trying to sneak out the window. Everything had been in place, just the way it always was. Yet for some odd reason she feels out of place, like she doesn’t belong here. Her thoughts were cutoff, followed by ear-piercing screams that filled the house. She restrains herself from getting up to check on her great grandfather, the doctors had strictly told her not to wake him during the nightmares, because he can inflict danger upon himself. Elena was never used to it though, the past three months he'd driven her insane with the constant

My older sister Mandy met her husband Gabe when she was 14 years old. By the time Mandy was 21, she was married with two children and lived a comfortable life. In 2010, Gabe was injured at his job and was no longer able to work. Gabe tried to find odd jobs around the neighborhood to help supplement his disability income, but in the meantime his relationship with Mandy was falling apart. In 2014, Mandy and Gabe decided to put their house up for sale, and move into a new home. Mandy and Gabe looked for a new home, but could not agree on one that they could afford or one that they both liked. Within 4 months, their house sold and Mandy and her two children (18 and 16) moved in with our mother and Gabe moved to Philadelphia alone. Little did they know that would be the last time that they would see Gabe.

The same pictures have lined the hallway of my childhood home for as long as I can remember. There is the heavily contrasted photograph of my grandparents, my mother, her two brothers and baby sister in front of St. John’s Catholic Church in Many, Louisiana. My grandmother is wearing a burnt orange dress which screams 1970 something and my mother, about thirteen in the photo, is wearing a lime green box-like dress with her straight as a board hair parted down the middle in direct contrast to the curly black mass atop my grandmother’s head. The next picture is my mother at sixteen. This one is a headshot of the same deathly straight dark hair and that perfect middle part. When I was eight, I asked my mother why her hair was so straight while Grandma Rita’s and Aunt Janie’s had always been so curly. “I have straightened my hair since I was thirteen,” she said. She then went on to tell me how growing up, she had been given so many perms that she had developed an aversion to eating eggs, as the smell of the perm mixture was oddly similar to that of rotten eggs.