To anyone who knows me well, it’s always hard for me to share writing. I’m incredibly self conscious about it, and I’m still getting over the fact that I have a hard time saying I can do something even decently well. If I’m going to write in any capacity, I need to get over that. I’m not going to be perfect at it, I’m going to fail. I need practice, I need rewrites, and I need to flesh ideas out. I can do that, but I need to give myself a chance for that to happen.
So here it is.
I wrote these two paragraphs while I was at work today. I had a bit of free time, so I took a stab at an idea that rolled into my head after a little thought. Tonight (as it is always nighttime on the internet), I present it to you. A snippet of a first draft of something I like.
The house looked much like any other that I had known in my short life; suburban, single story, a muted pinky-peach color, just slightly a different tone than its neighbors. One window facing out towards the street, one car garage. The main difference? No one lived there. The house was clean, prim and proper. The yard was evenly mowed, the lines crisp and straight. No one was ever on the property, though. Realtors never appeared to push that sign with their face on it into the front yard. The city never made any moves to tear it down, like they had with a few other houses that stood vacant for more than a few years. No squatters or love-struck teenagers even took up a single night residency within it’s walls. 223 Alberton Street had just been.
My friends and I, from when we first met in Kindergarten through our next to last year in elementary school, stared and wondered at this place. It sat there, right in the middle of the neighborhood, unmentioned by any of the adults. Sometimes, it almost seemed as if the adults had no knowledge of its presence at all. There were days where we all would just sit there and look at it. The house a monolith, seemingly unknowable to the shrewdness of apes that watched it; in this case, that was a group of nine year-old boys. In lieu of actual information, we did what we all do at that age. We made up and told stories about the house, and all the other things that we didn’t know, nor could comprehend.
And every once in a while, unwittingly, we told the truth.