ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
I watched a house being destroyed today.
It was cold. The sky was dark gray with murderous clouds and I sat there, alone, on some cold, random concrete slab deposited on the Earth. My dark hair blew in the chill, stiff air as I watched this home being demolished. My stiffened black pea coat did little to help keep me warm and my denim blue jeans were just as pathetic. My yellow and silver scarf flapped with the wind as I sat there, slightly hunched over, as if waiting for someone. The ground was barren, empty and dry. There was no green, no snow, nothing but a field of dead, pale yellow grasses blowing sporadically in this unfavorable weather. The house sat in the middle of all of it, the driveway made of brown dirt.
The afternoon of the day I sat there, observing, thinking. This house is difficult for me to describe. The chalky white paint was wearing off in countless areas of the exterior, exposing the dark, warped brown wood beneath. The windowsills drooped off this one-story disappointment and the glasses were frosted over. The chimney, a color of tasteless maroon lost over time.
The primitive, mustard yellow excavator tore its steel shovel through the house like it was nothing. As I watched this happening I wondered to myself..
Who lived here? This was someoneÕs home, maybe a home to many people, maybe to several families, but people lived here. Life was sustained in those walls and it echoÕs out through the empty air as this malicious machine tore through the walls. It saddened me to think, comparing my life to those of others, of all the memories.
What has happened here?
What is the history of this place that any other person walking past would not stop to question?
Someone was born in this house. He grew up here and he celebrated holidays, seasons, birthdays, and his life. His parents loved him very much and he knew this. As a child he spent summer days running circles in the front yard, jumping threw the sprinkler as his father laughed a convivial laugh while his mother made use of the Polaroid. The family celebrated Christmas twenty-one times together, his birthday, twenty-one times. He lived here when he went out on his very first date; ruby red roses were her favorite. She was special to him and after college they left together; a final farewell was exchanged between parents and son. Tears were shed and emptiness flooded him but he had to go; he had to make his own life now.
Over time the home began to slowly wear down. His parents moved out of the house and it became abandoned. It has been here for over a hundred years, as he did not belong to the first family that lived within it.
The excavator filled me with hate. I stood up angry, mad and heartbroken. I broke down as the man I was became the boy I used to be. Tears fell from my eyes and landed softly on my pink-reddish cheeks, frozen by the cold wispy air. I began to turn and walk away slowly from the depressing scene, my head down as I wiped my eyes and calmed my whimpering.
My cell phone rang; she asked me to bring home her favorite roses.
-Stephen M.
It was cold. The sky was dark gray with murderous clouds and I sat there, alone, on some cold, random concrete slab deposited on the Earth. My dark hair blew in the chill, stiff air as I watched this home being demolished. My stiffened black pea coat did little to help keep me warm and my denim blue jeans were just as pathetic. My yellow and silver scarf flapped with the wind as I sat there, slightly hunched over, as if waiting for someone. The ground was barren, empty and dry. There was no green, no snow, nothing but a field of dead, pale yellow grasses blowing sporadically in this unfavorable weather. The house sat in the middle of all of it, the driveway made of brown dirt.
The afternoon of the day I sat there, observing, thinking. This house is difficult for me to describe. The chalky white paint was wearing off in countless areas of the exterior, exposing the dark, warped brown wood beneath. The windowsills drooped off this one-story disappointment and the glasses were frosted over. The chimney, a color of tasteless maroon lost over time.
The primitive, mustard yellow excavator tore its steel shovel through the house like it was nothing. As I watched this happening I wondered to myself..
Who lived here? This was someoneÕs home, maybe a home to many people, maybe to several families, but people lived here. Life was sustained in those walls and it echoÕs out through the empty air as this malicious machine tore through the walls. It saddened me to think, comparing my life to those of others, of all the memories.
What has happened here?
What is the history of this place that any other person walking past would not stop to question?
Someone was born in this house. He grew up here and he celebrated holidays, seasons, birthdays, and his life. His parents loved him very much and he knew this. As a child he spent summer days running circles in the front yard, jumping threw the sprinkler as his father laughed a convivial laugh while his mother made use of the Polaroid. The family celebrated Christmas twenty-one times together, his birthday, twenty-one times. He lived here when he went out on his very first date; ruby red roses were her favorite. She was special to him and after college they left together; a final farewell was exchanged between parents and son. Tears were shed and emptiness flooded him but he had to go; he had to make his own life now.
Over time the home began to slowly wear down. His parents moved out of the house and it became abandoned. It has been here for over a hundred years, as he did not belong to the first family that lived within it.
The excavator filled me with hate. I stood up angry, mad and heartbroken. I broke down as the man I was became the boy I used to be. Tears fell from my eyes and landed softly on my pink-reddish cheeks, frozen by the cold wispy air. I began to turn and walk away slowly from the depressing scene, my head down as I wiped my eyes and calmed my whimpering.
My cell phone rang; she asked me to bring home her favorite roses.
-Stephen M.
I don't know what inspired me to write this, but I appreciate it.
Comments1
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
Bittersweet man. It makes me sad to think what'll happen to the house I grew up in when my parents are gone. Part of me wants to live there again someday, but once my parents are gone, there won't be anything for me there except ghosts.