The Cottage

This week I’m looking back in time, by sharing something I wrote for an English class when I was fifteen years old. If you enjoy it, you can thank my mother for saving this. If you don’t, blame me for writing it. It’s presented as I wrote it with no editing. I dearly wanted to make changes, it’s one looooooooong paragraph.

Did I have the glimmer of talent way back in the day? If not, I like to think I picked it up somewhere in my travels. Your mileage may vary.

The Cottage

As I stood int the driveway of the cottage that I stayed in as a child, many memories returned to me. The cottage was far from being luxurious, in fact it was ramshackle. Standing on stacks of concrete blocks it rather gave the impression that it might fall at any moment. The screens on the porch were filled with gaping holes that were patched with scotch tape. Paint decades old flaked off at the slightest breeze. But that is only the outside, I wondered, as I walked up the groaning steps, how much the inside had changed. The porch still had its decaying wicker lawn furniture. Pushing open the main door, whose lock incidentally did not work on a rainy day, I walked into the living room. I turned on the light and staggered back a step. It was as bad as I remembered it. The floor still had the rug, if it could be called that, made of shipping rope. Make-shift couches, that were in reality sagging cots, still lined that walls. The off-off white walls remained the same, including the tacky gold painted mirrors that hung at intervals. Then I entered the bedroom. It still had the twin beds with the molting covers and hard pillows. An ugly blue paint covered the walls and a bare light bulb protruded over the first bed. Turning around the I saw the kitchen with it’s rickety old center table the same as when I left it so many years before before. From what I have told you this seems like a sorry excuse for a cottage. Maybe in the physical sense, but when it was filled with good friends, it seemed like a palace.

P.S. In case you were wondering, the cottage I was writing about was real and it was a dump. That was accurate. Adding that last dollop of sentimentality made it seem less like what would now be a very harsh Airbnb review.

P.P.S. I don’t know what I got for this literary gem, the copy I have has no grade. Maybe a B? Let’s say a B.

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