I don't always post my writings here, but here's a short narrative I came up with earlier, in lieu of my recently crushing financial problems.
Rags to Riches, by Jez Layman
Whoever penned my story got it wrong. I was supposed to be rags to riches. I spent my first years in the trailer park, only they called it a mobile home community; it sounded nicer. Now we have a house. It's lovely, if you don't get too close. Just stay on the street, never mind the cracked siding and peeling paint, stay away from the faded door, the messy hallways and imperfections. Inside we've tried to make it look nice, but it's nothing compared to you and your house. I'm sorry, we did the best we could, really. But look at it from the street, from far off, it's smart, it's quaint. It's our dream. It's not much, but it's a house, that's all we wanted and maybe it's not perfect, but it's ours.
A house meant we were moving up, out of the trailer park and on with our lives, but, it didn't, not really. My story got messed up somewhere along the way. Someone put in one too many conflicts and added catastrophe instead of a dénouement. Things were supposed to get better, not worse. We were supposed to be able to live in the house, it was supposed to be pretty. The days were supposed to be filled with successes and happiness, not struggle and mountains of bills. I was supposed to escape everything when I left, when we got a house, but someone penned it wrong. Where's my rising action, where's my turning point? Where's my brilliant love story, my heroic adventure, my long-lost relative to leave behind a fortune? Where's my happy ending?
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