The Home Of My Sperm Donor

I feel a light tap on my shoulder as my brother, Andrew, pulls me out of my gaze. I look around, noticing the cars not in motion anymore. "We're here," Dad says, turning the car off. Shoving my phone into my pocket with the headphones wrapped sloppily around it, I focus on the house in front of us. I have only seen pictures of it on the housing website dad purchased it from. It doesn't look much different; it's still small with two stories and ugly green shutters to match the tan siding. The only thing I like about it is the small bushes lining the front. Mom used to spend hours shaping the ones at

A seemingly ordinary young boy named Herman Mudgett was wandering the woods that surrounded Gilmanton, New Hampshire, when he discovered a house. He had not come across it before, so he decided to explore what was inside. The door was already open, and the condition of outside convinced him that no one was living in it. Herman first noticed an upstairs landing that overlooked most of the common area. The home looked as if no one had ever occupied it; the walls were white, but looked grey due to the overwhelming amount of dust, and it was almost empty. Herman decided to continue his tour upstairs. When he finally reached the second floor, he carefully looked over the unstable railing to observe the space from above, although it did not look much different from the lower view. Herman continued to wander the halls until he heard a loud thump in one of the bedrooms.

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

I unlock the metal gate and climb onto the front patio. Before me stands a two-story house with newly-refurbished windows and a fresh coat of white paint. I admire the house’s beauty as I stroll past it. I walk through a crowded path of mohintli, white laelia, tithonia, and dahlias that seem to guide me to the real reason I am at this address. After moving the branches of some avocado trees out of the way, I finally find the treasure I am seeking: a small rose-colored house with just two windows and two rooms. With the key my father gave me, I open the doors to enter the rooms. The light switch does not work, so only shadows are present in the room. Giant cracks graze the walls like the markings of a lion. On the ceiling, an intricate flower design shines proudly with the rest of the room, slowly losing its will to decay. Only broken furniture stands in the corners of the room, ashamed to be present in front of a girl from the North. After taking a deep breath to calm my emotions, I lock the door, look to the sky, and walk back to the house I am staying at with my

When you wonder at night the door will shriek across the moldy floor. The shutters will open and close, and open and close. OPEN HOUSE, there is a new house on the market. One that has lots of character. One with exterior that is crinkling and washing away. With blood of the last calling your name. The front porch is caved in like someone was murdered just before coming in. The lawn not mowed. When you get to the rough and cracked concrete you would enter but you can’t the black shadow that passed the door faster than i light. the blood marks on the rails down to the deck and on to the door handle. Now it's your turn, when the deep wail of the wind carried with dirt gets in your eye now you start to cry. this is not a place for children no no sir this is for all those who don't believe

Burnt homes, flipped cars, destroyed shops were scattered. The uncertainty that had left her earlier returned at full force as they seemed to move away from the populated area. After about another ten minutes of driving, they came to a stop. ‘At be twenty doll’rs the old cab grunted out. Liana gave the grumpy old man the money and exited the car with her things. In front of her stood a gloomy, run-down ill maintained two story house. The house looked abandoned as if it held no life. The doors and windows were covered in a thick layer of dust. The window panels look rotten and ready to fall off at the slightest hint of a strong wind, ivy cling to the outer wall of the house. The land surrounding the house was filled with unkempt undergrowth.Liana urged herself forward and came to a halt in front of the dirty covered door. Taking a deep breath she reached out and knocked on the

In a town, with a population of 50, lies a small dwelling coated with multiple turtle statues, an acre of land, a variety of butterfly gardens belonging to my grandparents, however that house carries many memories and cherished moments from my childhood. The forty-five-minute drive filled with sweet triumph to sour defeat from the license plate game with my younger sister, allowed me to pass the time until we arrived to outspread arms from our loving and caring grandparents. Inside, a wonderful aroma of lavender and food boiling on the stove that served us dinner, rams into you like a train as soon as you open the door. Looking now, memories of all the accidents my sisters and I got into, from paint streaks of a vast paint

The bright yellow trim around their house chipped away from its base revealing a dull gray that reminded me of storm clouds. The fifty foot gravel driveway to their front porch was infested with tiny weeds. We called these little guys “lemonheads” because of their skinny green stems and thick yellow heads. Their house had a distinctive aroma. One you could never forget but also never explain. It almost smelled of a kindergarten classrooms, like crayons and wood. Some days, when the sun was high and all the doors and windows were open, it smelt of daisies and crisp pine trees. Their house usually was where I started my day. We would assemble in either Kevin’s room or the plastic painted castle on the side of their house and discuss our ideas for the evening. The youngest brother, Robby, always seemed to want to make mud pies or cut each others hair. Kevin and I, on the other hand, loved exploring the backyards of the cul-de-sac. With my whole family owning 5 out of the 7 houses on the court, we had a lot of vast open desert and mountain to venture through and make our own. All the back yards had two things in common. They didn’t have a fence line and they were nothing but broken down cars, sticker bushes, and mountains for miles. The mountains are where I learned

The snow had finally began to fall in our quaint little neighborhood, I could see my own breath each time I exhaled. I would spend most of the winter days playing in the snow with my friends. During the winter, each day was routine for the most part: wake up, get dressed, eat breakfast and stroll around the neighborhood. Although, during my walks, I would get a cold glare from my neighbor, Mr. Hansen, every time I passed his house. His face was wrinkled, and his hair was grey and withered like a decayed flower. He looked shocked each time I saw him, as if I had done something terrible to him. To my recollection, I had never even uttered a word to him before. Perhaps his old age was the cause of his scornful glares. In fact, he would look at everyone the same way. Some of the local women would try to greet him with a smile, but he would just remain silent on his porch sitting in his eroded old rocking chair. The whole neighborhood judged him for his distasteful expression. Rumors about Mr. Hansen being some kind of lunatic began spreading amongst the neighborhood kids. I remember I would get chills down my back each time I imagined the look on his face. He was a phantom, haunting the neighborhood with his unsettling aura.

It’s chilly tonight, the crisp autumn air blew the leaves in circles around my feet. It always fascinated me how trees lose their leaves, only to have them grow back. My strides are long and the wind blows my dress. I prefer summer nights, the air is warmer. I am pulled out of my trance when I hear the soft crunch of foliage behind me. I turn around to see a man wearing a fireman’s suit. I see firemen walking home each night, the same solemn look on their face. The same story every day, wake up, burn books, sleep, all on repeat. But something was different. He stood staring, was he studying me? He looked as if he was trying to speak, but he couldn't. Eventually, he said, “You’re our new neighbor girl, aren't you?”

I was giddy to get home i was walking down my my street “ Walkers rd.” I scoffed and roll my eyes. I walk down this road everyday and appreciate the scorching irony every time. I opened the deep oak doors with force. My 13 year old body still has trouble. I shoved the door with the elbow my grey backpack wasn't depending on. Finally when my body managed to push the door, something wasn't right. By that i mean my house wasn't mine… the orchard my mother obsesses over wasn't the center of the foyer , the bright white walls with the complementary purple rug wasn't there. It was dark with a rustic light switch. I hit the light switch and the creepy hospital lights that turn on one by one showed blinding light that settled to a musty yellow

Here I stand on the outer edge of the village looking out over a large spread of West Country farmland. By no means was I the best looking house on the block. Even though I am now the only house left standing in the neighbourhood. I’m not even quite sure why my owner is lying down in my front yard. I mean I’m not that great looking and it’s not like I hold many memories. He’s quite the loner if I do say so myself. Yet here I still stood with my squatish height and squarish figure. Now as for my owner Mister Dent, he was quite a different fellow. When asked to move out of me like all the other neighbours, he said no and that was that. Now I see him lying on the ground covered in mud like no tomorrow screaming at this man who I believe to be

“You have arrived at your final destination.”, My GPS concluded in its computerized voice leaving only the harsh sound of the rain wailing on my car windows to fill the void. I cut the engine and took stock of the small colonial I’d been persuaded to dine at tonight. It was painted modest colors and seemed no different than the few other houses I’d passed on the out-of-way drive over. I could distinguish no more discerning features through the sheets of rain and the window’s translucent varnish of condensation. I exited the car and bounded up to the door with long strides crossing a previously well-kept lawn now messy and puddled with mud and standing rainwater. My rap on the door was briskly answered by the proprietor of the house, a man I

Eugene’s house was small and gray, yet anything by dreary. His grass was well tended too, and he had an exquisite selection of flowers and bushes. His door was a delightful red, and his selection of this color made me smile inwardly as I walked up his stone pathway to the crimson door to knock on it. As soon as I knocked, I panicked. What was I doing? I had barely even seen this man, and all I’ve read was a letter. How do I even know if the letter was written by the person living here? What made me think I had the guts to do this in the first place? I tried to calm down. He was lonely and old, and though maybe an old man isn’t my first choice of a friend, it would be a magnanimous deed to visit. He wouldn’t be lonely. Beides, I can definitely learn a fact or two from him. My first instinct after I read the letter was to meet him, find out more, help him out. Haha, look at me, hanging out with random people! But did I have anything to lose? Maybe... I instantly went back and forth between doubt and relief. Before I could do anything further, a man opened the

When I arrive back at my house around ten minutes later, I notice something different, almost unsettling. I don't know what it is exactly. To the eye, everything seems calm, quiet. Only to me, it's too quiet, even in my small neighborhood. As I walk up to my front door, my breath catches in my throat. The door is cracked open, and the lock has been jimmied.