Critique Leatha story post and Corrins home sweet home and suggest revisions for the creative work; do not copyedit it. You

The house was beautiful. It sat in a clearing on the edge of a forest, overgrown with vines and looking forlorn. It had once been a stately house. Italianate in style with ornate woodwork, ceiling medallions, and at one time a portico. She loved exploring these grand houses that had been left abandoned. She loved to imagine what life was like there. How the previous occupants lived and work. Adelaide had been to this location numerous times before. It was a favorite of hers. That’s why when it was listed for sale at a bargain price of $5,000 she jumped at the chance to buy it. As she drove down the dirt road toward the house she couldn’t believe how lucky she was.

The house was 30 minutes outside of Benne, a quaint town in upper Michigan. Adelaide had grown up here with her parents and two older brothers. Her parents Ruth and Joe still lived in the house she had grown up in and ran the local Storeporium, an all in one box store. Her brother Caleb lived in Gatesville with his wife Jenny and their kids and her other brother Liam lived a street over from their parents. Adelaide had gone to college in Gatesville and had been working at a garden store in the marketing department until a few months ago when she decided to move back to Benne and do the marketing for her parents’ store.

Adelaide first saw the house fifteen years ago when she and her friends were out exploring the nearby woods and had inadvertently turned down the dirt road that led to the house. The house was still occupied at the time by a reclusive old lady named Margaret. Margaret used to be a very social part of the community until her husband passed away when Adelaide was still in elementary. After that she just retreated to her home and lived out the rest of her days. The house had been vacant since, in some kind of legal limbo between Margaret’s children. Adelaide didn’t know exactly what that meant or why they just decided to sell at a loss all these years later.

She did know one thing; the house would be lots of work. Margaret’s children never cleaned out their mothers’ possessions and when she asked if they wanted anything they just said no. So before the fun of remodeling and decorating could begin she had to clean up decades of belongings. Luckily the foundation and structure were in good shape and the roof had been replaced the year before Margaret died.

Her friends were waiting to help start the clean up. She was beyond grateful to have them there to lighten the load. She could also bounce ideas off of them for what to do with the place. She couldn’t decide if she wanted to make it her home, a bed and breakfast, youth retreat, or numerous other things. She figured once the space was cleared she could think better. As she got out of the car Vicki, her best friend, had already rallied the crew and was giving directions on where to start and what to keep and discard. Adelaide appreciated that about her. She knew how to take charge when Adelaide didn’t know where to start herself.

Adelaide opened the door to the smell of years of dust and closed windows. It was dark since the windows had been boarded up but as friends pried the boards off the light started to flood in. Adelaide figured the best place to start would be the living room. She pulled on her gloves and mask and slid the massive pocket doors open. There was stuff everywhere. Margaret and her husband had been collectors of all things. Crazy art pieces, beautiful glass, ornate furnishings, and so much more. She started with the family pictures that covered almost every surface. Vacation photos, birthdays, holidays, and everyday shots. There were even old photos of the house that Adelaide was definitely going to keep.

As she sorted she could hear her friends all around her, talking, laughing, and music blaring. The house started to feel alive again. Happy for what was to come, whatever it would be. This house needed to become something great. Something where laughter filled the rooms and there was always something going on.

2

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Home Sweet Home

Valerri Trefethren

ENG-226

Kelly Reynolds

5/February/2022

She opens the car door and takes her first step onto the dark country soil of her new home. This is the place she has dreamed of since age eighteen. That age where you start to notice your surroundings and find out what disenchants you. For her, it was city life. No peace, no quiet, just bustling drunks and strip clubs. She hated it. Always dreaming of a time, she could afford to escape. Finding land with a small house in the center. A bucolic setting with white shutters and the endless aesthetic of a picket fence. Finally, her dream had come true. As she walks up to her new home and surveys the property it sits on, she begins to feel an overwhelming sense of déjà vu (tedious familiarity). Up until this point Mary had not seen the property in person, only through badly taken photos provided by the previous owner. An elderly woman, who would not allow visitors until she had vacated the premises. Mary had found that an odd detail at first, but the price was below her range, and she did not care to wait for anyone else to snag this six-acre gem before she had the chance. She felt a connection to this place but could not figure out why. Unbeknownst to her, the property differed from the awkward photos she had seen. There was no picket fence, no distinguishable property line, and a shed that stood forbidding off in the distance that made her uncomfortable. But not enough to strip her excitement of looking forward to some peace and quiet. She grabbed her first box and headed for the front door.

Once inside her senses were triggered again by a familiar smell of fresh lilac that made this place seem like a dream she once had. Her dream was of her as a child riding a bright orange Sting-Ray bicycle, she had always wanted one, and the smell of lilacs. Mary can never remember much else about her dream, except it made her feel happy. Snapping out of the hazy familiarity, Mary notices a note on the kitchen counter that reads “Home sweet home at last. Love Mrs. Blanchard.” Love, Huh? That old bat must have really wanted out of this place, Mary thought. She then shrugged off the note and continued to unpack and settle in for her first night home. As the sunset and the sky turned to dusk, Mary sat in her bed sipping some Chamomile tea in hopes of winding down for a good night's sleep. It had been a long and exciting day, and sleep was a much-needed process for Mary. From an early age, she had trouble sleeping and remembering things. She could not recollect anything before the age of seven. Her psychiatrist used to tell her she might be blocking out a traumatic event as a coping mechanism, and her memories might come back with age. Mary HAD tried to block out a lot of her younger days, in and out of foster care until she was seventeen. She always wished she could have found her birth parents. This was typically her last thought before dosing off to sleep each night.

The next morning Mary was awoken to the cliché and almost comical sound of a neighbor's rooster crowing, it was at that point she thought, better than sirens and people fighting in her old alley outside her apartment. Getting out of bed and feeling overwhelmed by all the unpacking she still had to do, she decided to go for a run around the property to get to know her new space. Lacing up her favorite pair of running shoes and throwing on a blue hoodie she headed out to explore. Mary was a runner back in the city, always cautiously only wearing one earbud to hear anyone approaching her. She loved crime tv and thought of herself as somewhat of an informed citizen in those respects. But, this morning, she was on her plot of land and felt comfortable listening to her music in both ears. As she jogged the handsome landscape, she came across a lilac garden and a big oak tree with the name ‘Blanchard’ carved into its silvery brown bark. Her mind went to the mysterious old lady who once owned the property I would have loved to have met— Mid thought Mary was caught off guard by how close she was to the shed she had noticed yesterday afternoon. She could have sworn it was further away when she last saw it. It was as if this shed was baiting her to come inside. Pausing her music, she reluctantly headed in that direction full of anxiety and curiosity.

Upon walking up to the shed's door, she noticed a padlock had been cut off and was discarded in the dirt below her feet, and a not-so-pleasant smell coming from inside. It seemed strange to lock an old shoddy shed such as this, but nonetheless, Mary took a deep breath and opened the door. To her horror, what she discovered was an elderly woman dead with what looked like a single gunshot wound to the head. Mary scrambled to maintain consciousness after slamming the door closed again. Could this be Mrs. Blanchard? she wondered. After a couple of exceedingly long minutes, she worked up the courage to investigate once more. Going in the second time she noticed a letter pinned to the old woman's chest that said “Mary.” It was now certain in Mary’s mind that this was the deceased body of Mrs. Blanchard. But why? Plucking up all her courage yet again to retrieve the letter, Mary began to question this experience; Why am I not scared? Why have I not run to the house and called the police? Why me? Shaking, she grabbed the letter off the woman's smock-style dress and ran from the shed until she could no longer run any further, then she collapsed.

Lying on the ground attempting to catch her breath and undertake all that had just happened she opened the letter. The letter read: “Your name is Maryanne Jay Blanchard; you were born on this very property. Your mother's name was Anne and she died during childbirth. Anne was a beautiful woman who I was proud to call my daughter when she and your father married. We all suffered when she passed. Anne was his world, and she had always dreamed of being a mother and him a father. Your dad, my son, Arthur, fell into a deep depression and blamed your mother's death on you. He became vicious and I became scared to leave you in his care, consumed by the sadness he turned to alcohol. As the years progressed it got worse. I tried my hardest to give you a happy childhood, even bought you a bright orange bike for your fifth birthday. You loved it. I genuinely believed in time your father would come around and love you as I had. Until one day I came home to you crying hysterically on the front porch, hiding under an old wicker table we used to have tea parties on. When I went inside the house my heart fell. My Arthur had taken his own life. I found him motionless clutching your mother's picture. From that day forward I could only see him when I looked at you. I loved you Maryanne, but I failed you. I decided you would be better off, or really, I would be better off, if you were away from all this tragedy. So, I left you. I left you on the steps of an old church in a city far away from here. I felt the need to punish myself with grief and at your expense. I have lived a life knowing the truth and it has consumed me with the very same sadness that took my son. I am sorry, my sweet Maryanne. Putting the house up for sale was a final attempt to rid my soul of the wretchedness that has lingered here so long, then I saw a response from a Mary that was around your age and from the city. My heart fluttered like it once did long ago and I had to know if it was my sweet Maryanne. When I mentioned needing your address to send photos of the house it was not because I really needed your address, but because I had to know if it was you being drawn back to this place. When I first saw you step out of your dingy apartment, I knew it was my little Maryanne all grown up, and I had to set this in motion. Twenty years of guilt and shame biting at my mere existence had caught up with me and my selfish nature tightened around me. I lowered the price of the house and sold it to you. Having every intention of living to tell you this story, but I am weak, and the bite of my shame took my last breath. I am sorry my sweet girl, and I love you.”

It was all that Mary could do but weep in disbelief after reading this confession. Through all her emotions repressed memories began to surface. Her dream about her bike was real, and it was one of the happy days she had on this property. She remembered her grandmother's name, Sylvia. She remembered planting the lilacs she had been so fond of and carving the family name in the tree with her father during one of his good moments. Mary wept. She felt hopeless. Like she was caught in a horrible dream longing to wake back up in her shitty city apartment. Feeling more alone than she had ever felt as an orphaned child, she decided to join her family in death. After all, Maryanne was finally home.

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