Creative writing

now and then

On a cold, foggy quiet winter’s morning, Walking down Johnston street , where my aunty lived. As my family and I are walking down the street, we reach her house. Which it seemed to be like a haunted house, with on one in it. Her driveway looked liked a green pathway, with moss covering it. reaching for the creaky door, I imagine what it use to be like when she would come to the door, to welcome me in. walking inside, to the bitterly cold air, that you can see your own breath. The floor creaking walking through the kitchen, the tap drips into the sink, it sends shivers up my spine. Walking into the living room and see the tv going, it’s empty, like a brand new home. Windows are crying from the damp, cold air. Up the hallway I come across her bedroom. The curtains are closed, and all I see is an unmade bed and boxes of photos with old memories

A warm tuesday afternoon, I greet my aunty at the door, she tells me to come in. As I start to walk in, all I can smell is the mold, and damp cold air, like I was in antarctica. walking to the dinner table, and sit in her favourite chair. The great big cookie jar catches my eye this jar sits on the dining room table, it’s filled with homemade chocolate chip cookies. My ears would perk up, as she puts on the kettle. Several cups of tea and cookies later, I get up from the table and start to help her screw up news paper, and get wood for the fire. We would sit down on the couch sitting by the window, watching big trucks pass the house, as there’s not much to do in boring little Milton