Walkers Rd: A Short Story

I was slowly rolling up the street, sitting in the back of school bus number 741, for what felt like a normal Wednesday afternoon. I looked out the window as we entered my street and I couldn’t believe eyes. Little freshman me had my face pressed up against the bus window, desperately trying to comprehend why there could possibly be so many emergency vehicles in my driveway. The bus came to a stop, I ran to the front, and scrambled down the steps. I got off the bus, stopped, and looked at the 7 house walk I took every day to make it home. This walk I did everyday felt ten times as long and as I got closer and closer my vison started to blur, legs started to crumple, and all

As my car climbed the hill, my heart sunk into my stomach. I parked as far away from my friends as I could and quickly exited the car, not once looking at them. Now it was every man for himself. Emerging into the open air, I suddenly became aware of myself. I could feel my puffy, blood-shot eyes. My palms became slimy. My fingers clinched into a fist and my nails dug into my skin. My sight blurred and my tunnel of vision tried to focus on the front door. Every step seemed more awkward than the last. Eyes pierced me from all sides. I felt naked. My body trembled like a sheep in the midst of wolves.

One cold evening, passing by the graveyard it felt like something was watching me. Regretting every step I took as I heard my boots clink against the cold, rubbled cement. A shrill echoed throughout the mist and my hair immediately stood on end and a shiver raced down my spine as a lump came to my throat. The gravestones stood still, row upon row like soldiers lining up to march, then another ear-splitting shrill pronounced the air as I cupped my ears. It stopped. I began bustling home quicker and quicker as the palms of my hands began to profusely sweat and get colder. I turned to my right and there was a house which didn't seem to have anybody living in it. The house was caked in grime and some windows weren't quite right. They were off center and even some were boarded up, only leaving the slimmest of crawlers to struggle to get through. The overgrown branches covered the doorway leading in as if it was warning me to stay away. Some say the house hadn’t been lived in for seven years and as people walk by they can hear noises from inside. I stopped and stared. I noticed a woman and man standing in the window, staring at every move I made. She looked about her mid 80s with tubes running around her ears and into her nose. I slowly walked, then sprinted as if I stole something. I then finally got home and my father, Liam, was sitting in the recliner with his broken down rugged cane. I slung my backpack around my back, threw it off, and ran up to him and gave him a big hug. He

The beginning of David Serlin’s essay starts off with an abstract; Helen Keller is used as an example that is compared to the Flâneur, which is defined as “the celebrated street-walker who has been an icon of urban modernity since the 19th century” (193). Serlin makes it clear that his main argument will be to have those that are disabled to be included along with those who are abled. Serlin claims that the documentation of Keller’s life through photography has portrayed, or given the evidence, that she has become what society wanted her to be — a stereotypical women, and the distancing of herself from other disabled people to subject herself to what is considered normal. With this documentation Serlin questions his readers what it means to photograph Keller in such a way and how it affects those who comes upon the images. Serlin further argues that the images are to serve as a representation of disabled people and how it has become institutionalized. The point is how can we categorize the disabled body with Flâneur?

I intensely watched as the landlady drug my body up the stairs. As she took my body up to my room. He started to realize she was more than slightly off her rocker. After she got my body to my room, she left and came back. As I looked closer, I noticed that she had a scalpel, bag of jars. I watched as she cut my body open, and started to put my organs in the jars. After she emptied my body, she started to stuff my body with sawdust. I should’ve left before she showed me around.

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

I continue straightforward, only to see that the streetlights were malfunctioning. The darkness creeps onto the street and surround the street like a veil. I stop and begin to search neighbouring streets that may lead to alternative routes. This sudden epiphany of being alone in the dark sends a chilling trepidation like a person being held hostage at a gun-point range. ‘What if the robbers and serial murders were hiding in the dark, waiting, to strike me at a unsuspecting instance,’ I thought. The rain had stopped. I gulped and taste the air; humid, warm and wet. Disgusting. It had reminded me bitter memories of my experience with mosquitoes. I took a deep breath and went inside the

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.

'It is a cold, dark, night. I just got off of work, late once again. I’m supposed to get off of work at six thirty , tonight I got off at nine thirty. Therefor, I now have to walk in the dark by myself in the worst part of town. Of course this is happens to be the shortest way. I start to near the park. The dim lighting and buzzing of the cheap lightbulbs struggling to stay on, gives an eerie feeling. The wind howling doesn't make it any better. Also mentioning the fact that it brings the horrid stench of the sushi shack, or rotting fish. It makes me want to puke. I pull my hoodie up to protect my ears from the wind. I keep walking at a brisk pace, I want to get out of here. As I am walking I hear faint foot steps.They are quiet but quick.

I answered the phone, it was my friend Zoie “Hey, do you and Lane want to go get ice cream with Thomas and I?” I respond “Yes, we would love to! See you soon!” Lane and I got into my car and drove the what would be treacherous fifteen minutes to my friend Zoie’s house. We were blasting Walked in by Bankroll Fresh, “Looking like a trapper when I walked in the building, that mean I got something expensive”. We finally got to her twisty, turny, and curvy neighborhood, it was drizzling out side not to mention it was as dark as midnight outside. This wouldn’t have phased me before, I loved driving in the dark at night- the rain just made it a little more soothing. Over a small hill, down the hill, we hit a sizeable puddle. Passing a yellow with a curve ahead picture on it. The curve was so sharp that you almost hit your head against the window.

As we climbed the stairs I thought I heard a sound, but I thought it as a rat, (oh boy was I wrong, but we’ll get to that in a second). I asked her why the house was so derelict. She told me that this was her grandfather 's house, and that it had been abandoned for years. “Well then why did you tell me to come here, if you don 't live here?” I asked her. “Well because-,” she started to answer but was cut off, because at that moment we opened the bedroom door, and inside there were men, before I could do anything they had tackled me, then everything went black.

As I step toward the house that I have known my entire life I find myself inspecting every inch of the outer areas. The pile of crunchy, dull colored leaves that had been pushed to a corner as if not to interfere with the delicately arranged garden that surrounded the lands perimeter just along the sidewalk. The flowers in the surrounding garden have all died and are merely brown branches standing tall and spiked awaiting the spring season. The entryway walls are consumed with long weaving branches all

As I cross the bumpy train tracks in Elk River, Minnesota, I start to feel happiness arise from within me. After approximately 10 long minutes, I approach 205th Lane and a tingling sensation comes over me when the black, unlocked gate comes into view. Grandma’s house. I get out of my car and push the screeching gate open and a winding driveway is now visual. Driving down the rocky, black driveway the car winds through the budding apple trees, lilies, bleeding hearts, and the large pink and white almost fluffy appearing flowers. Making my way up to my grandma’s house was like being a small child in a large candy store, there was so much excitement and exploration ahead. Finally, after turning around a large oak tree filled with dark green leaves next to the assorted rock garden that holds a miniature pond containing bright orange goldfish, my happy place comes into view. Grandma Jackie’s wood sided, three story house with acres of land to run and everyone’s favorite, a large inground pool with white metal siding surrounded by a dark wooden deck. My happiness would begin in full force as the sunshine reflecting off the swimming pool catches my eye while I walked up the cracked filled cement sidewalk.

One glance around my minimalistic, green themed room lets me think for a moment that all my troubles are left behind my bedroom door. The problems I tried to leave behind are the least of my worries at the moment though. I made the mistake of holding still long enough for the darkness in my mind to ooze in closer. I sat down at my desk and glanced out the window. The last of the sunshine glanced off tree leaves like emeralds and drown my sleepy little town in twilight.

I visited my house after two months. Everyone was fast asleep. I went inside my room.It was almost midnight and I was trying to clear my head. I kept thinking about my life and how it has turned into nuisance. I couldn’t imagine any scenarios that could keep my infuriated mind in a placid state. I decided to wake up, drink the Starbucks that I was fond of and start writing about how I can get the life I want to live. As I took a sip from that frigid bottle I heard a creak from outside the window. The rusty gate between those old fences kept on making a squeak as the wind bashed it every now and then. I never discerned that annoying sound it made before. It must have been the way I used to see the world I lived in before. Never troubled and never perturbed. My mind was so prone to distractions as it constantly looked for things to whine about. That squeaky gate made me obnoxious. It felt like my fate was laughing on me. But, instead of being agitated, I decided to think calmly and go to the living room where that rusty old gate couldn’t trouble me.