The Yellow House- Editing (New Chapters Added In)

The Yellow House*

Long time no see...

Ok, first things first: I'm really sorry that I've been missing for over a year. That's completely unacceptable. I had terrible writer's block and couldn't figure out how to tweak the story to fix it. After thinking about it recently from a different perspective, I realised the only way was a complete rewrite. So, here is my first rewrite. I hope you like the format and that it's better than the last one. Your comments are ALWAYS welcome, thank you so much if you take the time to read this. Have an amazing day <3

P.s. The chapter dedication is to MyztikalTearz because she's left lovely comments on every chapter that were really constructive. Thank you so much, and please let me know if you think I'm headed in the right direction? I'll rewrite this until it's right!

P.s.s. The chapters with a * next to them have been rewritten. I'm leaving the others on here for now, but if you haven't already read this story then I'd recommend waiting for the next one to be rewritten too- if this one was any good that is ;)

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“Honey! There’s a delivery here for you!”

“Coming, Mom!” I called down, dropping the book on my bed and running towards my mom's voice.

I ran down the familiar stairs to the hallway that's never changed. We moved in when I was four, and I don't really remember living anywhere else. I'm so glad I was never one of those kids who had to say goodbye to their childhood home, or move from town to town. My home was perfect, and never wanted to leave. You have to have a certain amount of happy memories before bricks and mortar become a home, but thirteen years of living here meant that the walls radiated security and belonging. 

The Yellow House has been around for over half a century but probably closer to a century. The house was well known in our relatively small town; so much so that the number was dropped years ago, and the mail is addressed to 'The Yellow House'. Of all the buildings in town, ours is one of the few that's survived the growth of the modern age, and is a piece of tradition that keeps our little town connected to its beginnings. Everyone who ever buys the house is given specific instructions that they have to paint the outside of it canary yellow every ten years. Even if we didn't have to, we probably would have anyway. You can't really paint 'The Yellow House' another colour without looking like a moron. Besides, the house just looked like it was built to be painted yellow, but maybe that's just because that's how I've always known it. I jumped the last few worn stairs, sliding along the wooden floor uneasily in my fluffy socks past the wall we'd measured my height against every year since we'd moved in. 

"I think you've outdone yourself this time, Kiwi." My mom said, smiling as I slid past her.

"You could be right." I said, smiling at the box. 

"I love that you read, but summer is for going out and-"

"Mom, summer is for doing exactly what I want with my time, and surely there are worse things that I could be wanting to do than laying in the yard reading." I said, rolling my eyes. She frowned at me.

"I know, but sometimes I worry that you spend so much time reading other people's stories that you'll never make your own; there are real people out there you know, Kiwi? It worries me when I go out more than you!" She said teasingly, lifting her eyebrows at the last part and smirking at me. I copied her expression right back at her. After a few seconds her smirk stretched into a real smile as her eyes crinkled and she shook her head. "Okay, I've done my motherly duty and told you to hang out with your friends- you can do what you want now."

"I was going to anyway." I sang as she turned and headed back to the kitchen, the smile still on her face.

She was right, she did go out more than me. She wasn't out all the time but she did have a lot of friends, as well as unpredictable shifts at work. She was a nurse so she ended up working late night or early mornings sometimes. I was glad she had so many friends to have fun with- I knew she wasn't lonely. She'd recently tried to get back on the dating scene, but after a few months had decided to stop. She said if love would ever find her again, then it would find her on its own with no intervention. I knew that even if she didn't she'd be happy with the memories of my dad.

He died when I was nine; a car accident. During that awful time the house was like a blanket and me and my mom just curled up inside, only leaving for things like food and the funeral. After three weeks my mom just got up and put some real clothes on (not just the sweats and t shirt she'd been wearing like a uniform) and told me we were going for ice cream. Once she'd had some solid grieving time, she could carry on. She still missed him like crazy and cried sometimes, but she went back to work and started to smile again, and her tears were happy and nostalgic. She told me that day that she could accept his spirit mixing with the elements. My mom and dad were kind of hippies back in the day. Only a few things remain from that time, like my mom's attitude to death and the fact that I'm named after a damn fruit.

"Oh, Kiwi? Sienna called for you when you were in the shower." My mom's voice called from the kitchen. 

"Thanks mom!" I called back. I felt bad, but I wouldn't be calling her back today. She was my best friend in the world and I loved her, but she would want me to go out and I couldn't leave the house when I'd just got a delivery of new books!

That thought made me stop staring at the door to the kitchen my mom had just called from and turn my attention to the large, nondescript cardboard box next to the door. Even though it was a boring-looking, I knew that inside was my new lot of books to tide me through the summer. I ran bent down, a grin stretching my cheeks, and quickly tried to pick it up. My grin dropped when I failed miserably. I admit it, my mom was right- I may have gone a little crazy with my latest order of books, but it was summer! There was going to be a LOT of time for reading. I was being responsible: be prepared and all that.

I steadied myself to try again, grasping the corners of the box and bending my knees, my black silky hair falling around my face. A large whoosh of air left me as it still refused to move. I straightened, looking down at it as it stared right back, mocking me. I frowned and narrowed my eyes, my hands on my hips. I bent to try once more but again realised it wasn’t going to happen. I was about to drop it -probably directly onto my toe- until it lifted.

It wasn't so much that it lifted by itself, more that the box was suddenly a lot lighter as if it weighed nothing at all. It actually felt like I was stopping it from floating even higher into the air. Gravity had taken a vacation! I looked around to check the other things in the hall, but all the keys and slightly wilting plants were still chilling in their usual places; their bases firmly on their tables. I breathed deeply, my wide eyes darting from side to side as an inexplicable sense of uneasiness spread through me. My light brown eyes caught my reflection in the mirror as I looked around, my face showing signs of fear.

'Ok. Stop scaring yourself. There isn't even anything to be afraid of, even if that was a little weird. Just take the box to your room.'

I glanced around to check if my mom had appeared and noticed the weirdness, but I could hear her quietly humming and pottering around in the kitchen. I stood frozen for a minute, before backing up very slowly. When nothing else happened I turned and darted up the stairs. I put the box down as soon as I got into my room, and backed away from it, sitting down on my pale wood floor in the corner, my back against the pale green walls. I watched it for a while, apprehensively, before realising how ridiculous I was being. It was almost like I was expecting something to burst out of it, or for me to be sucked into it into a parallel world...

This was ridiculous! I refused to be afraid of a box. I shook my head quickly to clear the thoughts, went over to the box and ripped it open.

I really had gone overboard this time. Thirty four new books- that had to be a record. I was thrilled, but I bet my bank account was sore. I winced but quickly got over it, selecting the one I most wanted to read and jumping onto my bed. I settled down to read for an hour or two (or three, or five), the incident with the box filed away into the back of my mind where it remained all but forgotten.