Post by Lazo on May 30, 2005 20:05:03 GMT -5
I have an idea. An idea for a story series. It is of undefined length, however, it will not be about a character. It will be a collection of stories about different places, or, locations in depth. The end goal of this idea is to provide places for other people to use, or if requested, to give more details about an already created place. This is my first attempt at one, drawn from where I live, the malodorous unholy offspring of real and blended stories from over the years. See if you can find any underlying themes. Do you think it's a good idea? You might recognize some of the names! Function Places:
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This small corner of the town is what might be the relative "ghetto" of the city. Our, our houses only have two stories instead of the usual three, excluding the basement, and aren't longer than a football field. We don’t have any Mercedes or Jaguars either. Well, maybe one or two.
Take the "I'm lost" left turn to our court and on the right you’ll find the Mussolinis' house. It's got a well-cut lawn with a small shrubbery to the left of the driveway, a decent place to relax once in a while. They're the ones who go all-out with Christmas decorations. Everything from lights, to towering nativity scenes to oversized-santas, the entire yard is packed with it during that time of the year. They've become known as the life of the party, as they're talkative and have received yelling complaints from down the block.
The place next to it is the shame of our block, the only house with three stories. Simply looking at the house makes one cringe. They don't even care about it. The Mussolinis' always used to have to go over there to cut grass and trim bushes. These days their entire lawn is yellow, from the grass to the trees to the bushes, simply depressing. The people who live there don't fare much better. They're slow, hateful people who have always gotten into screaming matches with everyone. No one really knows who lives there, because people are moving in and out of it all the time, living there an average of six months. The longest residents were the Weizmanns, who had apparently beaten their kids. Often. They didn't fit in, and simply left after two years.
Continue on the right side to find the brown house with a vaguely Japanese design. There is only one person who lives there, Mrs. Hammarskjold, and she never seems to leave the place. No one really knows who she is or what she does. Unlike the Weizmanns, she somehow manages to keep her lawn cleanly cut and green without leaving the house. She only has one tree in the front yard, after having another removed for knocking over someone else's mailbox.
Take a deep breath and look across the street. There's the pride of our area, the Bismarck residence. Look at all the time and energy they spent on it. Dense, brightly colored and exotic foliage covers the entire lawn. It’s surrounded by water-polished boulders and a black-metal gate. In the middle of it all, a sparkling goldfish pond. Walk into it, and watch a carpet of mosquitoes rise up and attack. Everyone's talked to and has become friends with the Bismarcks, who consist of nine people. Most of them have grown up now, and have served in Iraq, become police officers and have traveled to Japan. They were the ones who provided neutral ground during the "years of spite."
The desert to the left of the Bismarck residence is the Brezhnev box. It used to be a simple but elegant place, square two story house with only grass, a few bushes and a tree. These days the brown patches are eating away the green like a cancer and the now-dead tree hangs over the driveway, ready to topple over at any moment. Their instability is all but legendary; when their son was hit in the head with a plastic water gun, they tried to sue the gun-wielder for assault, claiming that their son "didn’t care anymore and was going to kill himself." The charges were dropped because of a first-time offence, but ever since then they hardly even talk to the Bismarcks anymore. No one has seen their son, either. Perhaps he did kill himself.
Moving to the left one more time, ending up across from the Mussolini’s and on the other side of the "I’m lost" left turn. While the house itself is structurally identical to the Brezhnev’s, It's inhabitants, the Lenins, are much more civilized. There’s always a huge pile of fertilizer on their driveway from constant gardening projects. Unfortunately, it never seems to work out for them, as it's all they can do to maintain the looming row of pine trees that outline the curb. They used to receive complaints that the pines were unsafe and should be removed until the accusers understood that nothing else was able to grow there. Their grass is slowly withering, but they’re fighting it with every tool they can find. When the Lenins first moved in, they were open and held a lot of parties. It seemed like everything thing they, especially Mr. Lenin, said was hilarious or insightful. After a while, though, they just stopped. Instead of thinking of the next side-splitting remark, Mr. Lenin began to ramble about great deals he had on shovels and picks. Only the Bismarcks have the patience to listen to them now.
Go all the way past the houses of Mrs. Hammarskjold and the Bismarcks to find a small roundabout with one house at the end. It’s a special place, the only house with an outside deck. It has carefully observed blades of grass, a towering oak tree among three smaller ones and large pocket of bushes. The bushes provide a wall that allows one to sit in the shade and read, completely protected from observation or eavesdropping from other people. The people who live there are friendly, if sometimes callous. One of them was almost sued for assault, after they hit one of the Brezhnev’s on the head with a plastic water gun.
No one other than the neighbors ever really see that house, most people frantically leave before they care to notice. It’s almost like a secret place, hidden in plain sight. It’s allowed anyone who has lived there a great place to observe everything that goes on.
Don’t step on the grass.
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This small corner of the town is what might be the relative "ghetto" of the city. Our, our houses only have two stories instead of the usual three, excluding the basement, and aren't longer than a football field. We don’t have any Mercedes or Jaguars either. Well, maybe one or two.
Take the "I'm lost" left turn to our court and on the right you’ll find the Mussolinis' house. It's got a well-cut lawn with a small shrubbery to the left of the driveway, a decent place to relax once in a while. They're the ones who go all-out with Christmas decorations. Everything from lights, to towering nativity scenes to oversized-santas, the entire yard is packed with it during that time of the year. They've become known as the life of the party, as they're talkative and have received yelling complaints from down the block.
The place next to it is the shame of our block, the only house with three stories. Simply looking at the house makes one cringe. They don't even care about it. The Mussolinis' always used to have to go over there to cut grass and trim bushes. These days their entire lawn is yellow, from the grass to the trees to the bushes, simply depressing. The people who live there don't fare much better. They're slow, hateful people who have always gotten into screaming matches with everyone. No one really knows who lives there, because people are moving in and out of it all the time, living there an average of six months. The longest residents were the Weizmanns, who had apparently beaten their kids. Often. They didn't fit in, and simply left after two years.
Continue on the right side to find the brown house with a vaguely Japanese design. There is only one person who lives there, Mrs. Hammarskjold, and she never seems to leave the place. No one really knows who she is or what she does. Unlike the Weizmanns, she somehow manages to keep her lawn cleanly cut and green without leaving the house. She only has one tree in the front yard, after having another removed for knocking over someone else's mailbox.
Take a deep breath and look across the street. There's the pride of our area, the Bismarck residence. Look at all the time and energy they spent on it. Dense, brightly colored and exotic foliage covers the entire lawn. It’s surrounded by water-polished boulders and a black-metal gate. In the middle of it all, a sparkling goldfish pond. Walk into it, and watch a carpet of mosquitoes rise up and attack. Everyone's talked to and has become friends with the Bismarcks, who consist of nine people. Most of them have grown up now, and have served in Iraq, become police officers and have traveled to Japan. They were the ones who provided neutral ground during the "years of spite."
The desert to the left of the Bismarck residence is the Brezhnev box. It used to be a simple but elegant place, square two story house with only grass, a few bushes and a tree. These days the brown patches are eating away the green like a cancer and the now-dead tree hangs over the driveway, ready to topple over at any moment. Their instability is all but legendary; when their son was hit in the head with a plastic water gun, they tried to sue the gun-wielder for assault, claiming that their son "didn’t care anymore and was going to kill himself." The charges were dropped because of a first-time offence, but ever since then they hardly even talk to the Bismarcks anymore. No one has seen their son, either. Perhaps he did kill himself.
Moving to the left one more time, ending up across from the Mussolini’s and on the other side of the "I’m lost" left turn. While the house itself is structurally identical to the Brezhnev’s, It's inhabitants, the Lenins, are much more civilized. There’s always a huge pile of fertilizer on their driveway from constant gardening projects. Unfortunately, it never seems to work out for them, as it's all they can do to maintain the looming row of pine trees that outline the curb. They used to receive complaints that the pines were unsafe and should be removed until the accusers understood that nothing else was able to grow there. Their grass is slowly withering, but they’re fighting it with every tool they can find. When the Lenins first moved in, they were open and held a lot of parties. It seemed like everything thing they, especially Mr. Lenin, said was hilarious or insightful. After a while, though, they just stopped. Instead of thinking of the next side-splitting remark, Mr. Lenin began to ramble about great deals he had on shovels and picks. Only the Bismarcks have the patience to listen to them now.
Go all the way past the houses of Mrs. Hammarskjold and the Bismarcks to find a small roundabout with one house at the end. It’s a special place, the only house with an outside deck. It has carefully observed blades of grass, a towering oak tree among three smaller ones and large pocket of bushes. The bushes provide a wall that allows one to sit in the shade and read, completely protected from observation or eavesdropping from other people. The people who live there are friendly, if sometimes callous. One of them was almost sued for assault, after they hit one of the Brezhnev’s on the head with a plastic water gun.
No one other than the neighbors ever really see that house, most people frantically leave before they care to notice. It’s almost like a secret place, hidden in plain sight. It’s allowed anyone who has lived there a great place to observe everything that goes on.
Don’t step on the grass.
