The last couple of weeks in creative writing we have moved on from Prose Poetry to Prose Writing, I have not found this easy and not sure if I have got to grips with the ‘Prose’ and all it entails.
We had a picture of a house and garden and had to write what ever we wanted about it in prose writing. Then the following week write about it from a different angle. Here are my two attempts and it will be interesting to see what you think and if I have actually written them in prose form?
Walls damp with an odd smell of damp socks left lying to rot, you could see the spread of the mildew, black furry spots spreading up the walls like it is their right to be there consuming the majority of the wall. At the window a stained wooden shutter gripping on by one brown rusty hinge, banging against the old crumbling stone wall. Broken panes of glass letting the sunlight shine through and illuminate the room the splintered edges making rainbows on the walls. Glass so foggy with grease and grime, nothing to see no reflection or view. As heels clipped clopped over the floor boards stained by the families from years gone by, worn and splintered abused by the shoes of many. Next to the window you can open the old wooden door, it creaks sounding like the wood is just going to split into two, scraping over the floor like it never really fitted. The wooden veranda flows round the house with parts of the flooring missing or just worn away by the weather beating against it over the years. Safety never being an issue when this was built as just two beams protect you from the edge, looking very wobbly from years of being left to decline and rot. Like an old person the memories live on in every nook and cranny of this old house, keeping them all a secret and eventually all dying together with no one knowing the answers.
Renovating this house was going to be such an enjoyable experience that I could not wait to get started on it. There was so much character and amazing wood work that I wanted to save and reclaim all of it. These houses held so many memories of the years gone by with all the plaster moulding round the ceilings that had remarkably survived the years of neglect, so just needing gentle restoring to their former glory. The windows all wooden but apart from the glass broken probably by children playing football in the vast grounds were all still compact with each square secure and only the putty falling out. Floor boards could be sanded and lovingly varnished to their glossy red former glory. Boards could be replaced from the worst room then a new floor would just be needed in one room, then stained to look old like all the others. Everything would be kept in character with this fine old house. The veranda would once again come alive with small tables and chairs set out for breakfast in the sun or afternoon tea. Twinkling lights would shimmer in the distance as you sat on the two-seater swinging chair surveying the grounds and the moonlight reflecting on the pond as the ducks huddled together in the dusk of the evening.