04-04-2010

Part I

Start Fiction:


Art walked down the gravel driveway surveying the yard and realized it was bigger than he expected; bigger than just half an acre. Or maybe the house seemed smaller. Regardless, it was a quaint, inviting and comfortable space. Art felt something more and though he couldn't place the sensation exactly, it felt somewhat familiar.

Continuing down the drive, Art was happy to hear so many neighbors out conversing even though he found it odd that he really didn't see anyone around. None the less, the conversations that carried to his ears fed into his fantasy of a family oriented, friendly neighborhood.

Art came upon the house, garage first. The white aluminum siding was not his favorite, the roof was in need of being done and the garage door was fiberglass, and severely tilted. Projects number one, two and three were on the to do list and Art had not even made it in the door yet.

As he walked on to the side patio, Art realized the flagstone would need to be pulled, the area filled with gravel and sand, then the stones relayed. Project number four. Art needed to get inside and see if things were worse, or if this property was still a viable option.

Not that the involvement of these projects deterred Art. He was looking for such a house; a project house that would require him to learn new things, something he could restore a bit, but most of all something that he could make all his.

The owner, Mike, rolled down the drive behind Art on his motorcycle. His hair was jelled, unwavering - even on a motorcycle. A silk shirt, slacks and polished shoes. Something just didn't add up between the disrepair of the house and the spiffy appearance of the owner. No wonder it was on the market.

"Morning," Art said extending his hand.

"Right on time," Mike said as he removed his Oakleys. "Welcome."

Art discovered as they chatted on the patio that Mike was selling the house on his own to avoid paying a realtor, he had payed to get a circuit breaker box installed and the quarter of the yard fenced was also funded by him.

Great, Art thought. Can I see the inside? Laughter echoed slightly through the yard. Art looked around; still nobody. So odd.

Mike gave Art the nickel tour, it seemed. For someone who was trying to sell his own house, he came across more annoyed than anything. But Art didn't care. Upon entering the kitchen, he saw wood floors everywhere. Nine foot ceilings, huge, wide open kitchen, and plaster. Lots of plaster. Surprisingly, it was in much better shape than he expected. Good things.

For a house over one hundred years old, it was in relatively good shape, however, Art knew there were days of tearing out plaster, wiring, insulation and drywall. But the garage, well, the garage was a shanty with a buckled floor and reeked of dog piss. It was definitely the big project he wanted to save for a year or two. Luckily, even though they needed repair, the roof had a few years on it and the siding would hold up until he figured out exactly what he wanted to do to the house.

Art and Mike stood in the kitchen and chatted about the price, the age of the appliances and Mike's time frame for moving. As he listened, Art looked around the kitchen and adjoining living room, trying to locate the AM radio he heard playing. Nothing.

A loud creak came from above them, almost as though there was some one walking around upstairs. Art looked up, then at Mike. Mike had already stepped towards the kitchen door, keys in hand.

Tour's over, I guess.



End Fiction.