"I am always drawn back to the places where I have lived, the houses and their neighborhoods."
Raw and unedited:The seven-year-old girl sat in the back of the station wagon, her eyes glued to the home they were leaving behind. As tears fell down her face she waved goodbye to the memories of learning to ride her bike and roller skate; playing with her neighborhood friends; Mardi Gras and block parties. They were moving to Texas where the sky at night was big and bright with visible stars to wish upon. But that made no difference to the little girl. All she wanted to do was jump from the car and run back home."We'll be sure to visit," said her mom.But they never did.
It's so hard to let go, as a child, to that which holds all of your memories. Well told.
Nice, Laurie! Fun Sunday Start, Sister. :)
Thanks, sis. = )
Ah, sad. We moved around a lot growing up. Never did go back to the old places and visit much.
THE HOUSE ON WOODJoe Philips avoided it like the plague. Everyone was gone. His Mom and Dad having past twenty-five and five years respectively. It's in new hands now. Reports of her demise were greatly ignored. Memories Philips had skirted out of there are well preserved. They serve as the only reminder he'll ever acknowledge. It was a wonderful home, that house on Wood Street. A proper and noble home. Three generations had warmed their hearts on her hearth. Rebuilt and remodeled on many occasions; reconfigured to accommodate the families as they changed. Her last transformation gave Joe and his five siblings the root from which to grow strong. It wasn't wrong that their father would steal a room from the upstairs apartment to give sanctuary to his growing brood.But, when Mom passed away, the fracture that resulted made its gradual expansion until all were affected. Dad remained alone, and Joe watched him sink further into his alcoholism. The ability to cope with the loss of the matriarch was nothing for which Mr.Philips was prepared.And coming back "home" seemed less and less that. Familiarity was not a frequent visitor.Twenty years later, Dad became afflicted with liver cancer. Joe returned to care for his sole parent. The closer to the father's end, the more this place made Joe feel like he belonged. Unfortunately, the disposal of his father's estate and their familial home stripped Joe of that comfort.The tract was changed. The windows were shuttered. The wide-open yard was sequestered behind a high stockade fence. So much to keep secrets in, as strangers out. The whole neighborhood became a foreign land; an uncharted territory. It was an unsavory destination. Joe recalled a line from Truman Capote's "Breakfast at Tiffany's"."I am always drawn back to the places where I have lived, the houses and their neighborhoods." Joe concluded the author was full of shit.
;-). I guess literature, much like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder. A good read.
My childhood home/farm burned to the ground when I was 13 or so (Dad still lived there, but it was a year or so after I moved out). I'm kinda glad I can't see it changed/inhabited by others.I agree with Mark -- a good read.
I'm glad you did, and thanks.
Haha... I love this Walt. I agree... sometimes homes harbor painful memories. Thanks for participating. I'm afraid Sunday's not a very good day with Poetic Bloomings, The Sunday Whirl, The Mag and who knows what else.
Good prompt Laurie, even with all the other 'stuff' going on. Don't be discouraged, it will catch on.
Thanks for the encouragement, Mark.
I agree -- it's a good prompt! My schedule is just very different for Sundays. I eventually made it here! :)
THE ONE"So who would it be?"I crushed out my cigarette and took another sip from my beer before glancing sideways at him. "Really, have we sunk so far as to be reduced to these juvenile pursuits?""What do you want? We are sitting in a bar on Sunday afternoon, football is over, baseball has not started yet, it is raining and cold outside and neither of us have a girl to go home to. What else are we going to talk about?" He waived his empty at the bartender and held up two fingers. Guess we are staying for a while."Yeah, pathetic aren't we? All right, what the hell. If I could go back and find one girl that got away....? It would have to be Holly from Houston." I exchanged my empty for a full and lit another cigarette."Seriously, sounds like a porn star.""No, not this girl. She had way too much class for that. Sophisticated, you know. Read a lot, quoted old movies all the time. She lived three doors down from us in high school for about two years; we talked some waiting for the bus, but never much more than that. She was hot, but I always thought she was a little odd.""Odd? How?""Well, she always dressed too nice for one thing. Never saw her in cut offs or an old t-shirt. Always a dress, nice shoes, that kind of thing. I finally figured it out right before they moved. I went over to their house with my folks one Saturday night. She was in the basement watching Breakfast at Tiffany's; sitting on the edge of the couch and hardly breathing. I stood in the door and watched for about thirty minutes. I figured out pretty quick that she was into the movie. I am not talking about 'she liked the movie', I mean she knew it by heart. It also hit me how much she looked and acted and talked like the girl in the movie; she wanted to be THAT Holly. Now I think of her every time I see Audrey Hepburn. A sophisticated girl like that would have been good for me.""Audrey who?""Oh for the love of..... We have seriously got to spend some time in a library or something. Check please!"
Haha... I love this, Mark. Thanks so much for taking part.
Good one, Mark! (I think I know those guys.)
WHERE SHE LIVES“The sun is shining; honeysuckle and lilac are in bloom…” I say.In an instant she tells me of the sights and sounds of the back lane on the childhood farm. Rabbits bounding through the trees. Bees, looking for that honeysuckle. "I am always drawn back to the places where I have lived, the houses and their neighborhoods." And she smiles.It was the opening line to Capote’s “Breakfast at Tiffany’s.” But it was also the line Theresa repeated often during our sessions. I asked her once why that particular phrase – she said it was from her favorite movie.“You hear breaking glass…” I say.Theresa cowers further into the corner and describes a scene of shouting, abuse, and the smell of alcohol. Word associations are strong. Her senses, heightened. She did often return to the places she lived. My hope is that I will be able to help her to live here…now…today.
Paula- I commented on your blog but just wanted to say how much I'm liking your Flashy Fiction stories!
Thanks, Laurie. I've been having fun! :)
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Nick- You really should consider continuing on with this theme. I'd love to know what happens next.Thank you for taking part in the prompt.
Oh, wow! I loved this, Nick. Until the end, I pictured "you" in an understated car or truck, pulling up across the street from each residence, doing a driving tour of your past. And...I say haunt the one with the garish lions! ;)