CREATIVE EVENTS

           The yellow shack was all we could really call it since it was not fit for a home. Although we lived there for a good seven years, it was never a homestead. Its eerie walls oozed a screeching terror that would put anyone in their place with one pass by. The coolness of the air was neither refreshing nor calming; its atmosphere reeked of maliciousness. Not even from the outside was its presence greeted. It stood alone in a community of shining structures. Their tall-towered heads would not even cast their shadow upon our yellow shack. 

           The whispering voices that called my name at night grew louder and more frequent as each year passed. During the days I would see faces in the living room window and decapitated heads in the television screen. No one was mindful of my “childish games”, but I knew they were real. When I would wake up every night as a habit of my potty training, I would leave my room and continue down the hallway. Sometimes I couldn’t see him, but other times he would stand tall and ominous, watching me make my way to the bathroom before I could find safety in the light. I called him Mr. Fox. He never seemed to want anything from me or anyone else; he just stood alone in the shadows by our front door; waiting. I soon grew out of the comfort of hiding behind closed doors because the fear of opening the door and Mr. Fox standing right there was too overpowering. Thus, I had to keep my eyes on him so he wouldn’t move any closer.

            Mr. Fox was the only entity that I had named and who seemed to know my daily habits and followed me wherever I went. And yet, I still managed to enjoy some seasons in our overgrown lawn, pretending I was the hungry lioness hunting for my sister, the ignorant warthog, in giant grasslands in the savannahs. She and I would find protection in our unbuilt tree house that we imagined had wooden walls and a ceiling with a small window to peer out of to watch for enemy attacks. Our tree house was the Charlie Brown of all tree houses. It lacked a physical structure made of wood and nails but it was filled with love and hope. In the afternoons my sister and I would be sent outside so my parents could invest in their daily arguments while throwing wooden stools and gallivanting around as if they were more superior to the other. Those afternoons came frequently and were long drawn but we didn’t seem to mind; we always seemed to find amity in our front yard.The back yard was in reality a junk yard but my innocent creativity lead me to a wonderland of amazing hiding places and a simulation of Indiana Jones’ temple of doom. The flattened tires and rusted carriage from my dad’s 69, three-forth ton, white Chevy made an excellent fortress for my great escape from the world inside our yellow shack. Shadows casted onto the metals, black, pliable plastics, and rubber objects made for a cool relaxing environment. Without the outsized arachnids loitering in the thick, grease-covered grass and the corroded spikes that stuck up from the goopy soil, the back yard was a child’s utopia.

            The laughter of children playing in our neighbors’ yards was uncommon and unrecognizable. I’m assuming it had to do with the earsplitting screams that came from our yellow shack. There were no friendly people, or people for that matter; none which dared pass by our terrain. We were used to the deficiency of voices; except for those I heard calling my name. It always seemed as if I was never alone even with the absence of ‘real’ faces.

            The days my dad did laundry were the few days a month that any of us would ever enter the basement. My mom reminisced aloud about having “bad” experiences down there and who knows what that meant? She was easily frightened even though she claimed she did not believe in the paranormal. Just a slight tap on the living room window from the outside tree branch would be enough to make her skin crawl and fists tighten. I would tail behind my dad who appeared tall and unperturbed as he walked through the doorway of the basement. His twenty nine years of experience in the air force gave him the forte of conquering the depths of the basement and anything else that might manifest itself in his presence. This was the one reason I dared entering the desolate vault even though I tended to enjoy the presence of the unseen.

           The pitter patter of rodents’ feet in the basement walls invented a sense of fear in our minds. The tapping toes echoed throughout the hollow room making it almost impossible to feel comfortable in the shack. The pure adrenaline racing through my body generated numbness making me feel as if I were being watched; those eyes saw right through me and into my mind, making it hard to disguise my thoughts. I was captivated in the essences of the dark, cemented room while I held my breath and waited for the exhibition of something exciting. The fermented smell of dust, decay, and death arrested my nostrils once entering the cellar walls but became vaguely disguised by the freshly washed linens that occupied the air after a few steps in.

            Although the basement was filled with and array of aromas, it wasn’t the only lively smelling room in the yellow shack. But with the strong scent of the basement facilitating my senses, any smell afterwards would not be as potent. The kitchen, like any other, had quite the variety of smells. Some of burnt toast and others of leftover spices hung in the atmosphere. This must have been why I was always so hungry. The white-tiled surface that once laid out a nice picturesque glow on the kitchen floor was now a creamy-beige color that looked as if tapioca pudding was dowsed all over and left to dry in thick curdles.

           The kitchen was my favorite place to be when I was indoors because I always felt comforted and welcomed by the large three-foot windows that covered each wall allowing the sun to shine through. As the light filtered in to the kitchen, I would dance through the rainbow prisms that reflected off the glass window and onto the white granite countertops.  It was the one room that I could feel at peace. Leaving the brightness of the kitchen, the atmosphere changed immediately with the meeting of brown acrylic carpet that floored the rest of the yellow shack. The lack of windows, sunlight, and air made the rest of the shack seem unworthy of the effervescent feel of the kitchen. Every room had its own personality, its own agenda, its own façade. The power of each compartment in the yellow shack would alter my perception of reality giving me a false sensation of what was real and what was just an illusion. The deprived, little shack was full of surprises that never seemed to surprise us.

          The yellow shack, although commonly underestimated, was full of trepidation, exploration, and commemoration.  And after seven long years, we finally made the commitment to leave the yellow shack along with all of the eerie noises, disturbing shadows, and ominous voices. The shack became a part of my daily life and was hard to let go of. Looking back, I see it all as nothing but an irrational recollection that haunts me only in my memories. But it opened my eyes to the possibilities of imagination and what creative things can be made up if you only allow them.