Originally Posted by
Imajinashun
I’ll never forget the feeling of walking into that house. Very cliched opening. It might almost grab my interest, but it's so standard as a beginning. On the large porch along the length of the first floor, two wicker rocking chairs sat at a conversational angle at the far side, closest to the door. The sentiment here (conversational angle) is good, but the actual location of the chairs is described in a confusing way. Trim it down. A small table (-) that was frequently adorned with two tall glasses of homemade iced tea(-) stood in between the rockers. The dashes aren't necessary here. If you want to keep that sort of tone, try "A small table - I remember it frequently supported glasses of homemade iced tea - stood between..." or something less crappy than that example. On the large, dark mahogany door there always hung a wreath that was conducive to the season. Check your use of "conducive." When that season promoted ghosts and goblins, I would arrive on that step adequately costumed and prepared to collect for both my attire and considerable cuteness. Congradulations, your narrator is now a dick. Don't have him/her discuss their own cuteness. Also, the sentence is a little too formal for even the most eloquent first person speakers.
On a typical day, I would knock, wait, and listen for shuffling on the inside. If, after waiting a few moments, nothing stirred on the other side of the door, I would walk the path around the side of the monstrous home to the back yard to see if anyone was lurking in the yard. Nothing wrong here.
It was conveniently located on my walk home from school so I would frequently stop and discuss my daily quarrels and troubles with my Aunt, who resided at this great home. We would sip tea and tell stories and talk without noticing the passing time until the cool air signified the setting sun and I made my way home. Lots wrong here. The introduction of the house and aunt is awkward, nevermind the fact that we should've known the major details of the house long before this (such as its relation to you). This might be a good time for examples srather than summary as well.
I spent many summers there- lounging, floating in the oversized above-ground pool that was encapsulated by tall conical trees. The cozy retreat of a backyard was home to many momentous occasions in my life. Birthdays, surprise parties, graduations. I remember cutting cake countless times on the splintering picnic table beside the covered patio. Last sentence there has just the right level of description.
The slide on the playset beside the neighbors shed made a reckless water slide (Water slides can't be reckless) if one were (Seems like too personal a story to be throwing around "if one were"s) to tie the garden hose around the handle of its ladder and aim it down toward the cold metal. I walked home many evenings with a bruised bottom from soaring off of that slippery slope.
There was a bug zapper between the playset and the pool where, at twilight on summer evenings, there began a chorus of zips and snaps as small pests met their end. There's a nice detail. Good job with that one.
I never much liked keeping my head under water. You REALLY need to transition into this pool business, because there's been absolutely no talk of a pool before this. My best friend, the fish, would come over and disappear under the surface for minutes at a time. I would swim laps from end to end, applying different strokes each round. Occasionally I would put on my goggles, hold my breath and press my face to the water, peering below while watching her pick up submerged treasures at the deep bottom of the pool. So revolted by the feeling of water seeping into my ears and into my goggles, as it so frequently did, I would rarely stay under long enough, that, had I been submerged at the end of the hour, I would have come up later than the chimes of the bell tower of the church next door had finished announcing the time.
The downstairs was nothing short of enchanting. Inside the entryway was an oak secretary with an ornate reading lamp mounted atop. Through that first doorway was the dining room, a cozy space where wooden beams created, on the right wall, shelves for figurines and candles and décor. On the center shelf, slightly above eye level was an old winding clock with pendulums swinging below the clock face. The wall paper was a paisley Victorian print with bold fuchsia and brown accents. You kind of lose me when you dryly describe the wallpaper and ornamentation with no personal reactions. It's just not in tune with the type of personal narrative you've established.
On the opposite wall to the shelves was an entry to the family room. There was a large mirror occupying the majority of the wall above the couch. This room makes me think the most of Christmas time. I picture snowflake printouts hanging on the mirror that had been outlined with white lights. Good. The other side of the room, in front of the window that peered out to the porch, was where the Christmas tree always stood. On the adjoining, outward-bending wall was a series of five paned windows. I see a narrow white candle lit in each one. Opposing the windows was a great fireplace with a large bulky wooden mantle. Stockings, garland, ornaments.
I remember playing with trucks and dolls in the middle of the floor of that room. When I was much younger, there was a small chalkboard that was subjected to my doodling when I stayed with my Aunt. Awful use of passive voice in that sentence. It was on that chalkboard that my Uncle taught me how to draw a star. Up-Down-Over-Across-Down. Great, realistic detail. They didn’t always look very proportional, but I practiced and they got better with time. Describe one, give us an example, or that entire moment lacks.
Down the hallway at the back of the dining room was the kitchen, where there was a cupboard that hid the mallomar cookies- to the side of the hall was the living room. A special little room that I always- (Should be commas) even to this day, at this age- feel a bit naughty going into. I was only ever in that room when I was supposed to be somewhere else. It was the room with the vintage radio, the old dials so interesting and fragile that I dared not touch them. Papers scattered among a desk with a typewriter. It was the room where we sometimes put our coats and handbags for large family events. One Christmas eve, in that very special room, I stumbled upon large bags containing a myriad of uniformly wrapped presents. Parcels that seemed oddly familiar to me the following morning. I liked this paragraph. Good job.
There was an ornately carved wooden coffee table in front of the ‘fancy’ couch in the family room. On occasions like Christmas and Thanksgiving it would be lined with sculptured dishes with black and green olives, or sometimes just a little residual juice if I was late to arrive. Elegant crackers with slices of cheese and pepperoni. ...What a bout them?
We would gather in the dining room for what was a very argumentative, gestural, energy-filled, belly-stuffing meal. I never left that table with anything less than a belly ache that warranted a belt loosening of two notches. After begrudgingly helping the women gather and clean the dishes in the archaic porcelain sink, I would slip away to the basement to find my uncles, cousins and father distracted by a game of poker. Texas hold ‘em, aces wild. They would slip me a few quarters here or there for fetching a refill of their beers. I’ll never forget the smell of the basement- it, like an aged liquor, delicately blended flavors of sawdust, cigarette smoke and books. Nice job with the description of the smells. Maybe your best moment so far.
There have been an overwhelming amount of life-altering milestones that I lived through that had some connection to that house. Most of them I will look back on with a light heart and a smile across my face. There is one that I wish, more than most things in my life, that I could forget. I remember stumbling into that darkened special living room and finding my mom, in the large armchair facing the window, crying. It was the year that my parents first separated and I was thirteen years old. I remember the powerless, hopeless feeling that overwhelmed me as I wrapped my arms around her and wished that I could take her pain away. Despite this occasion, there are few things about the house and all of my memories about it that burden me like the phone call that I received today. Again, could use a few actual examples, a line of dialogue or a more detailed moment of a memory, to break up the somewhat cheesey summary.
My Aunt left me a message asking me to come over, when I had the chance, to pick up the set of iridescent china that she had promised me since I was a child. They were not going to have room to store it.
I drove up that street today, just around the corner from my home, just around the corner from my grade school, on the path that I walked home from school an endless number of times. I hardly noticed the tree that towered high above the house, tall enough to provide shade over the patio until sunset, until tea was sipped and stories told. Today, that tremendous tree seemed inferior to the small sign that hung below in its shade. Sold. So...what does this mean for the narrator? It feels like the trigger to an epiphany or message, but you don't deliver on it. This is the primary reason it's not a story.
Reply With Quote
