After reading 'The Mug' by Dawn Raffel, I was asked to write my own short story giving an object a story, personality and give the readers an insight of my views on this object. At first I could not think of an object to write about but after a think I decided I would write from an object from memory. A short story about a deep part of my life, To create a good story I believe it should come from deep within not just from researching any old object.
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Before I moved into my newest family house, I lived in the same city, same town, just down the road from where I live now, in a tiny village. The house I used to live in was the house I grew up in, The house I had my childhood memories in. It had the garden I had water fights in on a summer's day, It had the field down the road where me and my friends had snowball fight's. Nothing special he (the house) was a semi detached house with a big back garden, A smaller front garden, A conservatory, A bathroom, 3 bedrooms, A kitchen and a heart. His heart was known to other people as a living room. The heart of this house was the place we would eat our meals, talk about our day, do our work, watch our favourite tv shows, enjoy each others company, have partys, put up the christmas tree, celebrate a birthday and have so many lasting memories. Walking into him in the month of december was like walking into santa's grotto, Garlands and christmas decorations in every direction, The smell of yankee candles and glades cinnamon apple candles and air fresheners hit you in the face soon as you walk in like a snowball would in a snow fight. The sound of ash and puddings bubbling in the biggest pan on the oven top and the greetings of a wonderful mother. He held so many memories and leaving him behind was something we had to do. Now he holds another family's memories, Like a wise old oak tree, He live's on.
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I am obviously not a writer nor do I study literature, I am a creative student who loves to write. I hope you enjoyed my short story!
Thank you for reading.
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