 |
| The Lemon Tree |
| Story |
|
|
Alright, it may seem hard to believe, but yes, believe it. I like to write (gasp). Lol, this is the story I am working on now. I thought it would be fun to post it on the web and see what people really think of it. As you can see, I don't have a name for it. If there is a name that strikes you as creative and catchy, email me as if your life depended on it. Ok, well even if you don't have any ideas I hope you enjoy reading the beginning of this tale. : - D |
|
|
|
| | |
|
| It was a hot, lazy day in July, and the sun beat hard against Peter Tripleys ragged, sun-bleached hair. Mary sat beside him, staring aimlessly at the crystal sky, thinking about nothing in particular, for her face showed it. The spotlessly clean, white washed porch of the Dover house seemed rather dull to the two children that morning, as did the cows grazing in the parched field next door. Peter dragged a stick in the dirt and turned his freckled face towards Mary. Ive never been so bored in my life. He declared for the third time in a row. After a moment, Mary responded, If you say that one more time, its probably going to come true. She said, and Peter knew her eyes were sparkling with humor, although she didnt look his way, but kept her eyes on the sky as before. Peter sighed, Why dont we just go inside and offer to help Mrs. Peters with the Strawberry jam, weve got nothing better to do. Mary turned sharply at the suggestion, I think it would be a better idea to go over to your house for some milk and cookies, dont you Peter? Peter nodded silently. A quick look passed between them and before long they were racing down the lane without stopping for breath.
At Peters house, the feelings of boredom seemed far away as Mary and Peter laughed over Mr. Tripleys funny way of expressing himself. Mr. Tripley was blind, but he never showed it. He could do just about anything any normal person could do, and he was always in high spirits. Whenever Mary visited it seemed a grand occasion to John Tripley, he would set out milk and cookies for the two children, and put the clean cloth on the table...it was always milk and cookies actually, never anything more or less. Mr. John Tripely was very accustomed to milk and cookies, he would always say Theres nothing like Old Beas milk and your grandmas cookies to brighten up anyones day, he would chuckle after that, like he always did. Old Bea was the Tripely family cow, she had been with the family forever, it seems like. Mary couldnt remember a time when Old Bea wasnt in the barn munching on grass or out in the field looking as solemn as ever. Old Bea never smiled, not if a million farmers came and dragged it out of her, no, she would never, and could never smile. Marys conclusion was that she didnt know how, but Mr. Tripely loved Old Bea, and since he couldnt see her there was no reason for Mary to |
|
|
| |
tell him the awful truth. Old Bea was not the healthy, bright spotted cow that he has always imagined her to be. As for grandma, no one had ever seen the said "grandma around the house or anywhere actually. Mr. Tripely swore up and down that she was upstairs taking a peaceful lullaby or knitting herself to sleep. Mary and Peter would always exchange knowing glances that grandma was dead, and Mr. John Tripely was just imagining things. He must have been, right? If no one had ever seen her or heard her, surely he will find out someday. The only real question left about the grandma factor was the many afghans and scarves laying around the house. Every month or so, they would discover a new one, where all these came from they had yet to piece together.
Mary had always thought Peter had a fascinating family life...apart from the fact that his mother and father were dead, she rather envied Peter. He lived in a dragon purple house. Yes dragon purple was the color of his house....a very obnoxious and dark looking purple, but nevertheless his house was quite beautiful. A large front porch wrapped around the front, two windows stood above it looking over the lane from the second floor. Little intricate carvings graced every corner like paper snowflakes. A balcony stood between the two big windows that were above the porch, and beige French doors swung out and opened up to the wide sitting area. In the front was a big, crabby looking weeping willow that cried in the left corner of the yard. A smooth, stone path wound up to the curved steps while daffodils leaned over the cold, gray stone. There were bushes, of course, many, many bushes, they lined the front of the house, always trimmed to a perfect spherical shape. They formed a hedge around the back yard, framing in a beautiful flower garden and a vegetable garden in the corner. They also made a peculiar hedge fence around the front yard. It was very low, and always trimmed, of course, to a perfect square. The gate that lead to the path was made up of beige colored picket fence posts, and pansies graced the corners lightly. Mary had always thought it was the most beautiful and quaint house that ever existed, but the other children fantasized that the old house was haunted. They would imagine that the ghost of grandmother Tripley was watching them every time they passed. For this very reason Peter and Mary were not particularly friends with them, acceptances, yes, but friends, never. Mary and Peter had vowed to each other that friends with the Hills children or the Marks children | |
|
|
|
|
| | |
|
|
|
|
|
|
