Unknown

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
An unknown surrounded by knowns, a commentary about a midnight waking and the memories that the walls of the house bring them. (This is the first thing I ever wrote so constructive criticism would be appreciated)

Submitted: June 23, 2016

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Submitted: June 23, 2016

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 I could hear it, the faint sound of crying as I lay there dreaming about changing those cries to the sound of popcorn. As the wails became soft whimpers I decided to get up and leave the sanctuary that was my room. The walls of the hallway loomed over ready to collapse and crush me under its weight. The paintings of my family back for generations on the right, my current family, my older brother, younger sister and my parents, my mom only existing between the borders of the frame. As I reached the end of the passage the walls narrowed into a small but powerful door, the carvings of patterns woven brilliantly into the thick oak slab. I could smell the popcorn as I walked past the kitchen with the black and white checkerboard pattern floor and the nice laced tablecloth with an apron resting on top. The kitchen where I sat every morning for breakfast, the imported clock hanging on the wall in the center across from the large entryway. 

 As I approached the door I began to see light shining through the cracks, the glow of the sun bringing me back to the mornings where I ran through this door to play catch in the warm light of summer morning, but those days were for children now. When I reached the door, the door that appeared so large in my childhood memories now only just narrowly avoided scraping the top of my head. I twisted the doorknob and pushed open the block of wood with all the force I could muster until it finally swung open, letting in the brilliant darkness. Off in the distance I could hear an owl hoot, the branches sway with the soft midnight breeze, our lake off to the right reflecting the light of the moon, appearing so distant but feeling so close. I stood there for a moment, remembering my life of the past; waking up, getting dressed, eating breakfast, being forced into the family car, coming home.

I stepped out onto the porch, the breeze now swaying me back and forth in rhythm with nature, and I climbed down the flight of stairs, ready to take on whatever lay at the bottom. I knew I would not be coming back for hours, or years. But what I did know is that when I did, the lake would still be calm, the apron would still be on the counter, the grass would still be green, and the popcorn would still be popping.


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