The second floor back room is quiet, posing well worn years that don't care if the lights are on at night. Ribbon and floral printed curtains stare inwards as if to break any expectation there is a lovely view beyond the window. Out there in the wild terre verte vines and mossy branches, creatures fly, rest and hide. On the other side, the front steps creak and yawn from the many buyers wanting a deal.
The house knows and holds its value. It is an alpha house, sturdy, spacious, serene in the middle of a hundred and forty-three acres wooded and seven in pasture. The four seasons of New England have tempered the structure to take on more than the warm hearts of those stepping within. Cold hearts live here as naturally as the wild thorny roses growing by the back door.
The story is about a group of friends that formed during the covid pandemic who learned they have the same hobby, searching online real estate. They create a challenge to find the house one of them wants to buy in New England. They attend showings of the places they agree might be the one. They do find a house they all like. As it happens, that house does more than end their game.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the summer of 1952, I had an Ephinay while on the stairs at the doorway to Nathaniel Hawthorne's cupola writing room, that I want to be a writer. After high school graduation, I wanted to go to secretarial school in New York City. I wanted an anchor skill where I could get a job. I wanted to mature, learn about life to be a good writer. Weakness, being abused, and life took me in another direction.
Years later talking to my best friend in high school, relating what happened to us since we last had contact, her comment still rings in my soul. She said, "But I thought you wanted to be a writer?"
Over the years since then, I've had people tell me I write well. A few of them were surprised by my writing. There has also been people who have discouraged me. At a low point in my life a woman told me there is a museum for unpublished novels, as if that is the only place any novel I write will ever belong. I think she was trying to comfort me. In reality, she and the others that tell me no, mean well as they might, are cruel.
I write all the time. I don't finish many or have anything publication ready. I just keep on writing.
