Mr. Buxton 7th Grade RLA

Enjoy this RF scene from Erin T.

Title of Story: The story where all flowers die

Whenever I looked out of the car window, I didn’t just see the long road winding up that narrow street that had grown so, so familiar to me over the past 23 years. The rigged road was all the same with its bumps, dents, and sharp turns in places only a madman would think to  invent. The tall, proud standing oak trees that world drop so many acorns in the summer, that no one dared walk in the grass in fear that one of those aged green/brown blades would be hiding the bare foot’s worst enemy.

Well… worst enemy next to legos.

I gripped the steering wheel as I turned into maybe the worst kept house in the neighborhood, no state seems to be more accurate. I slowly grabbed my skateboard and bags from the passenger seat, wary of what can be easily described as the march into battle, gunshots guaranteed to be fired once that door opened, but in this case, I was only the messenger attempting to be a soldier. I managed to shuffle to the door, watching the windows for any sign of her. I stepped onto the doormat, which I wouldn’t be surprised if it read “Welcome to Hell” because that’s all this house was to people anymore. No one comes around to say hello, or good morning. Even the paper boy does it. On occasion, I’ll see him stop for a second, almost considering it, but then continues on, throwing papers house to house, the same as everyday. I’m still waiting for that boy to realize it’s pointless, you know, to keep doing the same thing over and over again just for a shiny green slip of paper. Nothing’s going to change, and no matter how hard he tries to, he can’t make it so.

I cracked the door open slowly, the hinges letting out a loud screech as I entered. I kicked it shut as I bent down and stowed my bags under the table. As soon as I straightened up, my eyes connected with another. For a second, I froze, just taking in those oh so familiar features. “I’m home, Mom,” I whispered, stroking the picture frame carefully. The picture was taken years ago, when we all seemed to be in the same world. I had stepped on one of those hidden acorns and mom had come rushing over the exact second it happened with those “mom senses” as dad said. However, as soon as she got there, I didn’t cry like most stupid little 7 year olds do. That day, I just laughed, because Josephine had started stepping around the acorns like the grass was a minefield. Dad had burned his finger on the grill as he turned to watch mom and I. Mom had come running as fast as what can be accurately compared to a bullet train. And of course, I had been the cause of disaster, but at least it wasn’t as disastrous as Josie’s decided to cause about a month later.

I tip toed to the kitchen, hoping to sneak a snack, but this time I felt a different set of eyes. “Hey!!! You’re back! How’s it go?,” she slurred her words as always. I flicked around my head and eyed her for a second. Josephine seemed to match the house as she was just as much of a mess as it was. She seemed to have slept in those baggy sweats and Harvard shirt that she was wearing, which was funny because she never went to Harvard. Her mousy brown hair was matted again and her eyes seemed to be glazed as she transitioned to looking me up and down for a few seconds. “You’s gonna say anything or are we jus’ gonna stare at eachother?,” she gestured to me with the half empty whisky bottle in her left hand and rubbed the back of her neck awkwardly with her right.

“It was fine, just go back to drinking your… whatever you stole now,” I replied in a low tone, knowing she’d back off if I just acted uninterested enough. I shuffled over to the sink, watching her out of the corner of my eye and grabbed a measuring cup. Only fill it half way, or you’ll overflow the pot, Josie used to say. She loved that flower and before her… problems started it used to be healthy as a horse, but after she started, the plant slowly began is wilt until it just became a shriveled up depressing looking reminder of how corrupt life has become. Though, every time Josie is off the alcohol for a few days, she water’s the poor plant and it seems to be getting better, but then she falls down that same spiral and the flower’s back to its wilted self. Same. It is a beautiful Poppy.

I finished watering the poor plant and turned to see Josephine was still just lingering in the entryway, staring. “Hey… don’t be mean now. I’m trying… ok?”, she sniffs, looking at me with her warm hazel eyes. I couldn’t help but scoff at this and turned my head back to the sink. Yes, and you’ve been trying for how long now?, I thought and shoved past her towards the living room. It hadn’t changed much over the years. The brown carpet, black leather couch, tiny little cable tv that probably hasn’t been sold since 1999.