Happy Monday! Today I’m posting the next installment of “The House Behind the Oaks.” Unlike many of my other stories, I’m writing this from week to week, posting each installment with no idea of where the next installment will go. So any feedback or comments you have on this one are extremely helpful, and will probably influence what happens next. (In other words, here is your chance to make a mark on the world of fiction without lifting a pen!) I was inspired to do this by reading about the serialized stories of Charles Dickens, but now I think Dickens probably had a very stressful life.
In particular, mentions of likes, dislikes, boring parts, and what you’re wondering about at the end, are very helpful. I also accept suggestions about where to go with the story, and/or suggestions to scrap this story altogether and start something new. Don’t worry about offending my feelings. They were so brutally offended in film school that they are now relatively blunt and callous, and I can accept most forms of criticism including those expressed as interpretive poetry.
Have a great Monday,
Excerpt from where we left off last week:
We saw through their transparent behavior; they liked looking at houses more than they cared for purchasing them. We had examined every single, available house in the vicinity where my parents worked, generally winding up by driving to either my mother’s plum tree house or my father’s box house, and listening yet again while they tapped through the echoing rooms, reasoning with each other about school districts and street noise, and then we had driven home to continue life in the safe, little yellow house we had grown up in, where my father had spent his life, and which my sister and I knew we were destined to spend the remainder of our lives in, too.