i wrote an original short (500 word) story as part of my application to this program. i would really appreciate feedback on it!!
As soon as I enter the building, I know this isn’t going to be anything like I thought. The walls are grimy and stained, shreds of wallpaper still clinging to off-white plaster where they hadn’t been completely ripped away. It’s a big house, sure, and the dust isn’t thick enough that you can’t see how beautiful the wood floor must have been at one point. However, I back up a few steps until I’m outside again, and check the number on the house. 223 Smithland Avenue. This is correct.
I walk back inside, and my shoes sound too loud. The house is utterly silent. He said he would meet me here. Where did he go?
There’s a creaking noise, and suddenly the house isn’t so silent, or so empty, any more. Two rats scramble across the floor towards the refrigerator. Rats. What was he thinking? What was I thinking? Dirt and grease on the walls, dust on the floor, rats under the fridge. This can’t be his house.
Is it his house? It dawns on me, finally, that maybe this was all a ploy to get me to come here….But why? He said he loved me, would love me until the both of us were dead. He bought me flowers and chocolate and perfume, as well as journals and highlighters and washi tape. Why would he bring me here? This is….gross. And dirty. And all the other things I’m not. When he said to meet me here, I had thought….God, I was so stupid. Hadn’t Mom always said not to go alone to strange places?
Why would he take me here? I shouldn’t be here. I stumble back out onto the front porch and down the stairs, my heels making everything awkward. I had dressed up so nice for him: heels and jewelry and a skirt. Had he been lying? Why would he do that? My mind runs through all the possibilities, from misunderstanding to murder.
The grass outside the house—his house? It couldn’t be his—is tinged yellow from all the sun we’ve been getting. The path that leads from the sidewalks to the front steps and cuts the yard in half is cracked. Was there some sort of mistake? He couldn’t have meant to send me here. He was a nice boy—Mom always said so, even though when she learned his age, she gave me a disapproving look. His eyes crinkled when he smiled. How could anyone whose eyes crinkled when they smiled be bad?
I stumble away from the house, my heels catching on the cracks in the path. Weeds grow between the chunks of cement, and not even the pretty weeds, like dandelions. Ugly gray-green weeds. They reach out of the cement to grab me and keep me there. Why would he do this? Why would he do this?
I make it to the sidewalk, gasping, heart beating too fast. I’m about to start running when I feel his grip, tight on my shirt.