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thewritingsofalex · 6 years

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The House of Aria

In the summer of 1998, when I had just turned thirteen, I made my first friend and learned how to tell someone no. I remember that summer clearly. The sun was always out and the temperature was always in the hundreds, which meant my mother delegated all of her errands to me. Never wanting to disappoint, I always said yes and hurried on my way. Every moment of that summer remains etched into my memory; every errand I ran for my mother, every day spent inside of a decrepit house, and every conversation I had with her.

On May 23rd, I ran an errand for my mother like usual. She complained of the heat and the humidity and refused to leave the house. I busied myself that first day of summer break replaying Super Mario World, however my mother quickly decided I would be the one to run her errand.

“You wouldn’t want your poor mother to get heatstroke, now would you Billy?” she would say. “Who would take care of you then?”

Not wanting to disappoint her, I took the money and left. It was a routine run to the market two streets over, the perks of a small town, but there was a new cashier that didn’t understand my… habits. See, normally it was Debby that rang me out. I never had to say anything, never had to make small talk, just had to grab the change and leave with whatever. Instead, I had this new girl Christine.

“Next in line,” she said. She sounded like she spoke straight through her nose. I quickly placed the single box of spaghetti noodles on the conveyor and watched as her pink fingernails grabbed the box and scanned it. I placed the money on the counter and waited for my change. My heart was pounding and I was starting to sweat, though it was not from the heat. I wiped my brow and adjusted my thick, rectangular glasses. My stomach was queasy from this sudden change in routine.

“Paper or plastic?” She asked, though it sounded more like a demand. I felt my mouth go dry and nothing came from my slightly ajar mouth. She asked again, more annoyance in her voice. By now I was visibly shaking as she set the change back on the counter. Before she could say more, I grabbed the change, grabbed the box, and sprinted out of the store. I must’ve looked like a maniac running across the street and into the thicket with a box of spaghetti noodles jingling in the afternoon heat.

I stopped to puke only once this time, a marked improvement from similar situations. When I regained my composure, I realized I had stopped next to the old house on 6th Street, two streets over from mine. This was the closest I had ever been to it. My mother had told me never to go near it, and never wanting to disappoint her, I did as I was told. Now, looking at it from just a few feet away, I could see why she wouldn’t want me hanging around.

It was old, older than me and probably even my mom. The white paint was chipping off, the windows on this side of the house were cracked and shattered, and the walls were covered in vines. I gathered myself and began to leave, only to hear a series of creaks coming from within the house. I don’t know why, but it peaked my curiosity. Sure, my stomach felt like someone was beating an egg inside it, but I couldn’t stop walking forward. Clutching the box of spaghetti noodles in my hands, I peeked into the closest window.

Inside was a girl, a young girl, around the same age as me from the looks of it. It wasn’t so much that she was inside an abandoned house, but that she looked simultaneously out of place and right where she belonged. Her image contrasted against the decaying background so strangely, yet she looked so comfortable and natural there. Her brown dress twirled around as she danced to music I couldn’t hear no matter how hard I strained my ears. I watched for a few moments longer before I crept away, knowing my mom would be expecting me back.

That night, after we ate our spaghetti in silence, I tried asking my mom about the house on 6th street.

“Hey mom, you know that old house at the end of 6th Street, the abandoned one?” I asked, watching her eyes never leave the latest episode of Friends.

“Yeah huh,” she said.

“Do you know if someone bought that house?” I had asked. She looked at me for once, which caught me off guard frankly.

“Not that I know of, and you remember to keep clear of that place, you got it? Strange things happened there. Now run along and go play your games, mommy is watching her show,” she said. I did as I was told and dropped the conversation.

I remember the following day I woke up with a sense of discomfort. I felt strangely jittery, as if I had a secret and I had no one to share it with, mostly because I didn’t. I sat down in front of my Super Nintendo, as I had done every Sunday morning, and tried to game away the sensation. Mother was at work and I was home alone, like usual. I could hear the children outside playing and laughing and kicking their summer break off with a bang. Me? I sat alone in my room, a blanket covering my window as me and my only companion Mario attempted to save the Mushroom Kingdom again. By three o’clock, I had had enough of this unshareable secret.

Ten minutes later, I’m standing outside the abandoned house on 6th street. I made sure to be at an angle so that the closest neighbor, one vacant lot away, wouldn’t see what I was up to. My body shook from the anticipation as my chest burned. I had this creeping desire to claw at my chest and throat until it went away, even if it meant sinking my nails into my skin and drawing blood.

I peeked into the window next to the door, noting the lack of life inside. No sign of the strange girl. The last thing I wanted while satisfying my curiosity was running into another person. I didn’t think my stomach would be able to handle much more.

I pushed on the door and watched it slowly open. I stepped inside and tried to process what I was viewing. The house looked spotless, brand new even. The walls were painted a beige, the staircase in front of me in perfect condition, the walls were adorned with pictures of a family which included the girl I had seen just yesterday, and the house was filled with the sounds of classical music and the smell of freshly baked cookies.

At this point, I turned around and quickly walked back out the door, shutting it behind me and proceeding to throw up off the side of the porch. I firmly believed I had just walked into a stranger’s home, that I had somehow imagined everything I had seen from the window.

After wiping my mouth, I looked back into the window. It was still a broken and decrepit house. I moved my head around, making sure it wasn’t some picture plastered on the frame. Hell, I even stuck my hand through a spot void of glass and moved it around. This house was one hundred percent abandoned. When I went through the doors again, the house was anything but.

The same girl from yesterday was sitting before me on the staircase. She had a big smile, like he was the first person she’d seen in years. My mouth went dry and my heart pounded and my stomach tightened. Her skin was a pale shade, and her eyes were this dark brown, so dark I couldn’t distinguish between the pupil and the iris. They silently watched me. She quickly got up and held out her hand for me to shake.

“My name is Aria!” She said, though I sensed a beat of forced enthusiasm. “It’s been so long since I’ve had any visitors! Daddy hates it when I have friends over.”

I was dumbstruck. I didn’t know what to do. All I could do was hold out my hand and shake hers gently. I could feel my stomach rising and I fought to hold it down with all my might.

“I’m Billy,” I said.

“It’s been so long since I had a friend to hang out with,” Aria said. “Daddy hates it when I have friends over, especially when he isn’t home!”

She looked at me, expectantly, I had this burning sensation creep into my chest and neck again. I wanted to claw at it until it went away.

“Weren’t you outside my window yesterday?” She asked. I hesitated, but nodded in response. “Well Billy, it isn’t polite to puke and leave!” Her laugh made my head spin. My face burned and I could feel that particular churning beginning to take hold again.

“It’s okay, I puke when I don’t feel good too,” she said, a smile on her face that made my churning go away.

“You do?” I asked.

“Mhm! That’s why daddy hates it when I have visitors. He says they make me sick,” Aria said, her eyebrows crinkled together and her mouth frowning. “What does he know, right?”

I laughed awkwardly and nodded, hoping my response would please her. It seemed like it had, for she smiled and laughed as well.

“All I want is to have a friend to play with,” She said, “and you seem like the perfect person.”

That was the first time anyone had legitimately asked me to be their friend. Granted, I had just met this girl and new very little about her, but I wasn’t about to let a potential friend slip away from me so easily. I nodded.

“Sure, I’ll be your friend!” I said, my smile stretching across my face. The sweating, the tremors, the beating heart; it all eased a bit hearing that. I could hear the church bells from downtown ringing to signal it was four o’clock.

“I have to go, my mom will be home any minute now,” I said, turning to leave.

“Come back tomorrow!” Aria said.

The next day, I did just that. A knock or two and the door would open. Inside I would go, and inside I would stay for the next two hours. It was the first real conversation I had with her on that staircase, though I specifically remember we rarely talked about her.

“Where do you live, Billy?” Aria asked.

“Two streets over,” I said. “Do you live here with just your dad?”

“Do you live with your parents?” She asked, ignoring my question.

“My mom,” I said. “She makes me run her errands when she doesn’t want to.”

“Aw, that’s awful,” she said. I remember thinking it wasn’t that awful, but I didn’t protest and we went quiet for a few moments.

“Hey Aria, isn’t this house, you know, abandoned?” I asked. I could never read the emotions in her eyes. They remained that near black and never showed a hint of emotion. With a weird rigidity in her face, she responded.

“Of course not, I live here as you can see,” She said, laughing as if it was a stupid question. Maybe it was, but this house was definitely abandoned. That’s what the windows told me.

She taught me a simple melody on the piano in the living room. Aria had me sit down and she pointed to the keys to press. It sounded amazingly out of tune, but she seemed unphased by it all. It was strange, but we were smiling and laughing, and my chest and throat didn’t burn. I felt like I had made an actual friend for once in my life, all of my quirks included. She seemed just as excited as I was.

This continued for the next couple of weeks. I would run errands for my mom when she was gone, go and visit Aria for at least an hour or two, then made it home before my mother did. We would talk about my life, and I would bring board games (though she insisted I move the pieces for her), and I would do my best to talk about her life as well.

“How come I never see your dad?” I asked one day.

“Cause he always works,” she said in response.

That was as far as I would get. She never gave more than that.

“Why do you always do what your mom tells you to?” she asked.

“I dunno, I don’t like disappointing her,” I said. It was true. “She’s all I have, so I want her to be happy.”

“She treats you like her servant, she has all these rules, and the only one you’ve broken is coming to see me,” Aria said, pointing out my flawed logic of following her orders to a T. “Tell her no, be your own person.”

Aria was good at that, at least, from what she said. Ever since day one, whenever she was about to break a rule, she would announce it to me.

“Hey Billy, daddy says I’m not allowed to have a friend over, but I do!”

“Hey Billy, daddy says I can’t eat cookies for lunch, but I did!”

“Hey Billy, daddy says not to play his records, but I’m doing it anyway!”

She was the antithesis to me, and yet a reflect of me at the same time. She followed only one of the rules her dad created and she ached for being social where I followed most of my mother’s rules and preferred isolation. Our only similarities were our habit of puking when we didn’t feel good, and our habit of remaining indoors.

June 17th was the first day I followed Aria’s advice. My mother left a note out for me explaining that she wanted me to clean the dishes, sweep the kitchen, then run over to the Stephens’s house down the street and pick up her box set of Beverly Hills, 90210. I did none of those things. Instead, I hung out with Aria all day. My chest burned, and yet I felt so light.

“There you go! Just keep telling her no!” She said, giving me a small pep talk so that a new pattern of behavior could form. And it did. Each day, I got a little more bold and a little more reckless. Aria fed me ideas on how to rebel against my mother and how to rebel against my own desire to please. I didn’t question the strange girl in the abandoned house with an impossible interior.

June 21st was the first day I verbally told my mother no.

“Billy, do the dishes while mommy vacuums,” my mom said, giving me an order.

“No,” I said after a literal minute of standing silent. My mom looked up at me, her eyes wide fit to burst. I think the shock of it all kept her silent. She shook her head and went to vacuuming like she planned. I think that lack of immediate discipline fueled my desire to rebel.

The day after, I noticed Aria looked as if she was a tinge darker than before, like a miniscule amount of color filled her body. I ignored it of course and we continued our conversation for that day.

“And then I just told her no!” I said, my chest fluttering and my body feeling light.

“Hah! Serves her right!” Aria said, slapping her leg and adjusted the same brown dress she wore.

“Yeah, I’m my own person,” I said, slapping my leg to emulate her.

“The next time she tells you what to do, tell her to fuck off!” Aria said. My eyes widened a bit as I had rarely heard cussing. I was at that age where it was still a taboo only used by adults and high schoolers.

“Yeah, that’ll show her,” I said even though my chest and throat burned.

And so I did.

Two weeks later, when my mom had asked me why I hadn’t been doing my chores and running errands like she asked, I told her to get off my back.

“Excuse me? What was that young man?” My mom asked, her brows scrunching together and her voice a harsh tone I rarely heard.

“I said go fuck yourself!” I said, my voice filling the room. My mom’s mouth was hanging open, unable to believe that her son, the one who could barely talk to strangers, let alone cuss, had become so bold.

“That’s it, get your ass over here,” She said, her voice hard like metal. I don’t know why, but my teeth grit together and I heard Aria’s voice repeating all the advice she had given me. When my mother grabbed me to spanked me, I pushed her. Hard. I can’t forget the fear in my mom’s eyes as she lay on the floor, staring up at her only child. We didn’t speak the rest of the night.

I told Aria what I did the following day and she laughed so hard. She thought it was hilarious that I pushed my mom, like it was the ultimate act of rebellion. She looked almost normal now; her iris’ no longer indistinguishable from her pupils, her skin a healthy and radiant tone. By this point, I noticed how pale I as becoming. I was pale before, but this was new. Aria said not to worry about it, so I didn’t.

I began to realize that my desire to please had only amplified, and that it was directed solely towards Aria. I wanted to make her laugh and smile, and my acts of rebellion fueled her laughter. But, I was curious about why she wanted to rebel so much.

“Why do you break all your dad’s rules?” I asked that same day.

“Because I never got to have friends. Because he kept me away from everyone cause he said they’d make me sick. Do you know how much it hurts to watch everyone have fun from the window while you’re stuck alone in a house that your daddy never lets you leave?” She asked. I nodded in response, relating to some degree how isolating life could be.

“It’s the one rule I can’t break, so I break every other rule so he knows how much I hurt. Rebelling gives me power in my life,” She said. “You’re hurting and powerless, so I want you to break all the rules too.”

It was weird rationale, but I didn’t question it. Up to that point, I never questioned anything she did or told me, nor did I question what little information I had on her.

On July 12th, I started getting sick, most likely an infection. My body was weak, I had a cough, and I was looking paler every day. By July 16th, I looked like I was a cancer patient I was so thin and pale. My mom demanded I go to the hospital with her, but considering how I listened to every word Aria said, I ignored her. When she pressed the issue, I slapped her. Then I left.

Aria was as radiant as she had ever been. Her hair was silky and her skin was nicely tanned and I could no longer see her bones. I smiled as the door closed behind me, Life resting in my hands. She motioned towards the staircase and we sat down on the creaking wood. I opened the box and set the pieces out. I put every piece in its place when I noticed Aria moving pieces on her own. I stopped and stared, this being the first time I had ever seen her physically move something.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Aria said while she started her first turn. I laughed in response and waited for my turn. A coughing fit hit me as I started my turn and Aria smiled.

“Here, let me do it for you, since you’re so weak,” She said, running through my turn for me just as I had done for her every day before. “You know what you should do next?”

I looked at her, waiting for a response and keeping myself from throwing up. I remember thinking that maybe I should have stayed home and listened to my mom. She wasn’t exactly nagging me, she was making sure I didn’t die. And I slapped her. I felt doubt for the first time since May 23rd. I felt remorse. I felt sick.

“You should pull the ultimate act of rebellion, like I did with my dad,” She said. “You should make her shut up, for good.”

I remained silent for a few moments, decoding what she meant by making her shut up, for good. Then I looked at her and I noticed how alive she looked. Then I looked at myself and noticed how dead I looked. I looked at the game of Life in front of us and realized that she’s been playing this game the entire time, only I was the piece she was moving around.

“No,” I said, staring into her bright brown eyes. “No, I won’t.”

That was the first time I told her no, the first time I rejected her advice.

“Excuse me?” Aria said, her eyes narrowing and her voice scratching my ears. “You can’t tell me no, you’re too far gone now. You gotta finish what you started.”

“No,” I said. “I look like I’m dying, yet you look more alive than I‘ve ever seen. All of that started when I started taking your advice.”

She looked, then she smiled, but she never admitted.

“Take my advice, Billy,” she said as more of command, “Do it.”

I looked into her dead eyes and I shook my head.22

“I’m not stupid, Aria,” I said. “You got sick, and you never got better. You blame your dad for trapping you here when you were alive, and you blame him for trapping you here now.”

Her eyes narrowed and her teeth pressed together.

“But I am not you, and my mom isn’t your dad. I will not follow in your footsteps.”

I looked at her, one last time, then turned towards the door. I gripped the handle and I opened the door. I hesitated, wondering for a brief second if I was making a mistake. I’m ashamed I hesitated. But in that moment, I looked back and I saw an abandoned and decrepit interior, and I knew I had made the right choice.

In the months following, my mother and I tried to make up for our actions. My mother recognized how she treated me as more of an object, a servant, and I recognized how abusive I had become. It wasn’t an easy process, but a few months of seeing a therapist together helped us to communicate. The burning in my chest and throat never came back, and neither did the creeping advice of Aria. I never did tell her where I spent all my time that summer, but I have a feeling she figured it out during those therapy sessions. I don’t think she knew much about the abandoned house on 6th street, but I think she knew of rumours, rumours she still hasn’t told me.

I pieced together what happened on 6th street with the assistance of the library’s database of news articles. I found her face, and her father’s, both found dead. Aria died of an infection due to a weakened immune system, and her father supposedly fell down the stairs and died at the foot of the staircase where Aria and I had spoken every day. ‘You should pull the ultimate act of rebellion, like I did with my dad,’ rang in my head. I don’t know which is worse, Aria shoving her father down those stairs before or after she died that night.

I only saw that face in the newspaper one more time on May 23rd, 2000. After years of red tape and auctioning and many other issues, the abandoned house on 6th street was set for demolition. I, along with my mother, were one of the few to gather and witness the spectacle of demolition. From our safe location a good bit away, I could see a face peering out from the front window I had stuck my hand through those two years prior. Her eyes were near black, her skin was pale white, and her body was frail and weak; a reflection of myself in my darkest times. She didn’t smile, she didn’t wave, but she acknowledged my presence. As the first of the controlled fire began and the house of Aria went up in flames and her window became vacant, I felt her advice trying to creep into the back of my mind. I shook my head, I turned to my mother, and hugged her tight, reminding her how much I loved her.

Hey guys, thank you for reading. This is my third and final short story for my fiction class and I finished up critiques a few days before. I may go back and fix up these stories to hammer out the critiques given, but time will tell if I do!

#short story #fiction #ghost #childhood #anotherkindofstory #writing #assignment

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thewritingsofalex · 6 years

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The House Upon the Hill

The Voices live in the house upon the hill. The Voices rest easy in the mansion, looking down upon the valleys and villages below. The Voices smile, and wave, and give the impression of friendliness, of hope and fortune. The Voices whisper songs of joy and freedom and love from the open windows to those down below. The Voices let them know of the glories of the house upon the hill. “When the rains come, seek shelter in our house. When the floods wash away your belongings, seek shelter in our house. Our doors are always open to those who need them,” the Voices would whisper, “Give us your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, the tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!” That is what the Voices whisper to all those down in the valley.

The rains came and the floods began washing away the hopes and dreams of those in the valley, they sought shelter in the great house upon the hill. But, the golden door closed upon them. The golden door locked and listened to the cries of those in need of shelter, of those searching for a brighter future away from the storm, of those hoping and praying to their God that the suffering would not last. The Voices whisper while those outside knock and plead at the golden door. The Voices peer through the peephole of the golden door at those suffering on the outside. The Voices see them through a lens, hear them through a filter, and thus, separated from their suffering. The Voices remain cozy inside, clinging to the moral high ground laid down by their predecessors, the Voices who built the great house upon the hill. The Voices whisper, “We are the house upon the hill. Come and seek shelter in our house of opportunity, of freedom, of happiness.” And yet, the door remains locked, and the Voices remain vigilant lest these suffering many sneak into the house upon the hill.

The Voices inside the great house upon the hill whisper, “We are all equal. We are one. We are powerful.” Yet, The Voices are not equal, and are not one, and are not powerful. Many are forced to live in the basement. The pipes leak onto those working, the rats bite at the feet of those resting, and the floorboards creak while laughter and music floats through the rotting wood from those above. They try to climb the stairs and open the door, to be out from the cold, dark, and wet basement of the house upon the hill. But, this door is locked too. They ask that the door be unlocked, that they enjoy the amenities those on the first floor enjoy. They ask to rise from the dark, cramped space and join their fellow residents. The Voices whisper from the other side, words of discouragement, disbelief, and displeasure.

The Voices whisper, “But you have a bed, why do you need to come up here?”

They respond, “The beds have bed bugs, and the rats bite at your toes while you sleep!” The Voices whisper, a bit annoyed, “But you have blankets, why do you need to come up here?”

They respond, a bit exasperated, “The blankets have lice that bite at your head while you shield yourself from the cold!”

The Voices whisper, angrier than before, “But you have a radiator, why do you need to come up here?”

They respond, pleading, “There are too many of us to fit around the heater so we go cold!”

Then the Voices whisper, fury foaming from their words, “You are lying! You are complaining! Things are no different up here than they are down there!”

Then They respond, “Open the door and see for yourself!”

The Voices hush and whisper. The door remains locked.

Sometimes one of They will twist the knob. Sometimes the knob will catch and unlock. Sometimes one of They will step out onto the first floor. The Voices take immediate notice. They are different. They belong in the basement. Most of the Voices do not say this, only a few will dare to whisper, and even fewer to openly express. The Voices hush and watch. The Voices alienate and discourage. The Voices whisper, “They are one of the good ones. They are a special case. They are not like the others.” Those below the floorboards listen as well. Some of They get angry and ostracize the Good One. Some of They have high hopes for the Special Case. All hope the one Not Like The Others will unlock the door. But, no matter how much the Good One pleads for the door to be unlocked, no matter how much the Special Case lobbies for the rest of They to come upstairs, no matter how much the one Not Like The Others explains the hardships, the Voices hush and remain silent.

The Voices do not recognize that the Good One is not a Good One. The Special Case simply is one of They. They are all ones Not Like The Others. They are all bright, and special, and unique, and powerful. They all should succeed, like the Voices do. They all should live on the first floor, like the Voices do. However, not all of They do. That is why the Voices see the Good One as a Special Case, as one Not Like The Others. The Voices are surprised one of They are successful. The Voices know the door is locked. The Voices know the basement is dark, and cold, and wet, and crowded. The Voices know they keep They below. But most of the Voices do not recognize it. The Voices are not aware of this subconscious desire. These Voices do not want the first floor to be crowded, or for rooms to be taken by They, or for their position to be threatened by They. The Voices want to remain on the first floor. The Voices want to remain on top.

The Voices are beginning to splinter.

Some of the Voices agree with the Good One. The first floor is better than the basement, and They deserve to be on the first floor. These Voices argue with other Voices, telling them of the hardships They face in the basement. These Voice keep trying to unlock the door, and keep it unlocked. The other Voices call them traitors. The other Voices accuse them of hating their own kind.

Some of the Voices deny the first floor is better. These Voices try to push the Special Case back down into the basement. The Voices deny the one Not Like The Others’ ability. All the Voices see is They. And these Voices do not like They. These Voices believe They complain and make themselves the victims. These Voices believe They, in the basement, have everything the Voices on the first floor have. If the basement truly is worse than the first floor, then it would be the fault of They.

Some of the Voices agree that the first floor is better than the basement. These Voices deny that the door is, or ever was, locked. These Voices claim They could rise up with enough hard work and dedication. These Voices say They are lazy and entitled. These Voices say They need to work harder and work longer. If They do not succeed, then that is the fault of They. These Voices do not recognize their starting position on the first floor. These Voices do not see the problem with the struggle of They.

Some of the Voices simply need to have someone below them, to keep They under their foot as these Voices are under everyone else’s feet.

The Hands watch the Voices below. The Hands live on the second floor, the highest floor. The Hands have the power, the strength to push the Voices around, to lock and unlock doors, to command and carry out. The Voices do not have power as they are voices. Voices can only speak words. Hands can silence words.

The Hands open and close the doors on the Voices, trapping them in one room, keeping them out of another, and separating the Voices at their pleasure. The Hands make the Voices do all the work. The Hands keep the profits of such work. Maybe the Voices see the profit of their work every once and a while, but the Hands are in control. The Hands control the house.

Every year, the Hands build up another foot higher from the first floor. Every year, the Hands get further and further away from the first floor. The stairs become longer and longer. Any of the Voices attempting to climb them face more stairs every year. The stairs go so high, most of the Voices collapse and fall back down to the first floor. The further the Hands get from the first floor, the more the Hands can see, and the more the Hands can control. The more the Hands control, the more the great house upon the hill becomes their house upon the hill.

The Hands hush words they do not want to hear. The Hands cup their fingers around the words they like so that all are made to hear. The Hands control the Voices, and many of the Voices are none the wiser. Many of the Voices do as they are told, do as they are commanded by the Hands. The Voices may not have action, many only be words wafting through empty air, but words can be powerful.

The Voices whisper words. The Voices whisper Truths.

The Truths are dangerous to the Hands. The Truths are dangerous to the Voices. The Truths point out hypocrisy, point out lies, point out deceit. The Truths do not come from all of the Voices. The Truths come from the Voices who believe those outside the golden door have voices. The Truths come from the Voices who believe They who live in the basement have voices. The Truths come from the Voices who believe the Hands above them are simply voices. The Truths come from the Voices who do not accept the way of life in the great house upon the hill. The Truths come from the Voices who understand the power of their words. The Truths come from the Voices who stand together in solidarity against all those who seek to do them harm, who seek to separate and label. To these Voices, there are no Hands, no They, no Those Outside the Golden Door. To these Voices, they are all the same, they are all one, and together, they are powerful.

Today, these Voices cry out into the night of the unjust rules of the house upon the hill. Today, these Voices demand the doors be flung open, that the floors come closer together and the stairs not be so high, and that their fellow Voices open their arms in a loving embrace instead of a cold recoil from the world around them. Every day, these Voices, hand in hand with the Voices from the basement and the Voices from outside the golden door, scream with all their might, together, as one, into the cold, dark night. These Voices yell for the sun to rise and bring with it the change they so desperately desire.

No longer shall the Voices whisper.

The Voices live in the house upon the hill. The Voices rest easy in the mansion, looking down upon the valleys and villages below. The Voices smile, and wave, and give the impression of friendliness, of hope and fortune. The Voices sing songs of joy and freedom and love from the open windows to those down below. The Voices sing songs of opened doors and short stairwells. The Voices let them know of the glories of the house upon the hill. “When the rains come, seek shelter in our house. When the floods wash away your belongings, seek shelter in our house. Our doors are always open to those who need them,” the Voices would whisper, “Give us your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, the tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!” All Voices from the house upon the hill sing to all those down in the valley as the golden door swings open:

“Together we sing! Together we rise! Together we are powerful! Come my fellow Voices! Let us sing our Truths! Let us raise the sun and end our everlasting night! Let us join together! Let us be… American!”

#poetry #free verse #im not good with poetry #anotherkindofstory #akos #metaphorical essay #expression #politics #United States #first draft #rough draft

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