Sneak Peak — Memory Lane

[drown]

Hey everyone 🐾

I felt very trapped in the kind of writing I did with Oregon in the Fall, so I just had to try to write something different. Today I would like to share a snippet from the very start of my story "Memory Lane" (or "Echoes of Her Silence" or "The House That Waited" …)

Any feedback (what do you feel when you read this?) would be greatly appreciated. 💙

I think I'm improving as a writer, but there is such a long way to go.

 

Rain hammered against the taxi’s windshield like a thousand drumming fingers, blurring the world outside into a wash of grays and blues. I pressed my forehead to the cool glass, watching the familiar landmarks of my childhood slip by like ghosts in the mist.

My grandma always said it was ok for me to not visit. She understood my pain of going home. But now she was dead, and had made me her sole heir in the process. Clever woman—she always had a way of guiding me without uttering a word.

It didn’t come as a surprise that she didn’t leave anything to her daughter, my mom. They hadn’t been on speaking terms, and that’s something we had in common. When I came out as gay to my parents, our relationship ended rather abruptly. Talk about the pain. I often wondered if their fallout had been similar, a clash of values that neither could reconcile, but alas, I never asked grandma about it and that was ok. She was my family. Had been. Her house would be empty now.

Fuck.

The driver, maybe in his late thirties, had one of those clean-cut looks that somehow worked even in a small town. Dark hair, strong jawline, and a scruff that seemed effortlessly perfect. His eyes, sharp and a little playful, flicked toward me through the rearview mirror. He had driven me to the funeral earlier today, but I hadn’t really looked at him closely until now.

“Been a while since you’ve been back, huh?” he said, breaking the steady hum of rain against the windows. His voice was deep, smooth, with a lilt that was a little too casual, like we were old friends.

I shifted in my seat, my attention pulled away from the blur of the streetlights. “Yeah. A few years.”

“Figured,” he said with a grin that I caught in the mirror. “You’ve got that ‘I-don’t-belong-here’ vibe going on.”

I huffed a quiet laugh. “That obvious? I left when I was 18. Basically ran and never returned.”

He shrugged, eyes back on the road. “Small towns… people notice things. Especially someone like your grandma.”

I blinked. “What do you mean?”

“She was… you know, kind of a local legend in her own way.” He grinned again, this time with a hint of something else behind it. “But I bet you already knew that.”

I looked out the window again, pretending the blur of the rain had my full attention. “Yeah, something like that.”

“I’m Dan, by the way,” he added, his tone suddenly a little lighter. “Figured we should be on a first-name basis if I’m driving you all the way back to memory lane.”

“Alex,” I said, glancing back at him. He met my gaze in the mirror, his eyes lingering a moment longer than necessary. He had that confident, easy charm, the kind that could make anyone feel noticed in all the right ways. 

“Good to meet you, Alex,” he said, and I swore there was a little extra weight behind my name when he said it.

I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I just nodded, letting the silence stretch between us until Dan broke it again.

“Your grandma,” he continued, “she was one of a kind. Used to see her around all the time—grocery store, farmer’s market. Always had something to say that was just… spot on, you know?” He glanced back at me, a soft chuckle in his throat. “Like she could read people. Kinda spooky sometimes.”

I smirked, more to myself than to him. “She was good at that.”

“And she could bake, too. I swear, I still think about those cookies she used to give out. Once she figured out my favorite, it was like she always had them waiting when I drove her somewhere. Thought that was a little more than coincidence.”

I smiled despite myself. “She was big on making people feel seen.”

Dan grinned, a flash of white teeth in the mirror. “She knew what she was doing. That’s for sure.”

We fell into a comfortable silence again, but it was charged, like there was something else just under the surface of the conversation. His eyes flicked back to me once more. “So… You sticking around, or just back for the house?”

I hadn’t thought that far ahead, but the way he said it made it feel like there was more to the question than he let on. “Not sure yet,” I said. “Guess it depends.”

“On what?” His voice dipped just slightly, casual but with a thread of curiosity that felt more personal.

I met his gaze in the mirror again. “On what happens next, I guess.”

“Well,” he said with a sly smile, “maybe things won’t be as bad as you think.”

The cab slowed as we rounded the corner onto Willow Lane, the streetlights flickering in the rain. Dan’s eyes flicked up at them briefly, his smile turning into something more playful. “Or maybe they’ll be more interesting than you expect.”

The shadows outside stretched unnaturally long, and I blinked, trying to clear my head. My emotional state wasn’t exactly stable, but something about the way the light twisted unsettled me. When I looked again, the shadows were just shadows. A trick of the light.

Dan pulled up to the house and put the car in park. He turned back toward me, leaning against the steering wheel, his grin as lopsided as ever. “Here we are. Home sweet home.”

I stared at the looming silhouette of my grandmother’s house. The once-white picket fence was now cracked and darkened with age. It looked more worn, more… tired, than I remembered. The knot in my stomach tightened.

“You sure you don’t need anything else?” Dan’s voice broke through my thoughts. His eyes lingered on mine in the mirror. “Not even a ride back later?”

I hesitated for a moment, half-expecting the tension between us to make it hard to leave the car. “I think I’m good for now,” I said, pulling out my wallet. “What do I owe you?”

He raised an eyebrow, his smile still there, but now tinged with something teasing. “Nothing. A good conversation is payment enough.”

I chuckled, shaking my head as I rifled through my wallet. “Thanks, but I’d rather not owe anyone favors my first day back.”

Dan pretended to think it over for a moment, then shrugged playfully. “Fair enough. Forty bucks.”

I handed over the cash, our fingers brushing for the briefest second. His hand lingered just a bit too long on the money before he tucked it into his jacket pocket. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, sliding out of the cab and into the rain. The cold hit me harder than I expected, the dampness sinking straight through my jacket.

Before I could shut the door, Dan leaned across the passenger seat, flashing me another grin. “Take care, Alex. And don’t be a stranger.”

I gave him a small nod as I closed the door. “Thanks, Dan.”

I watched as the cab pulled away, his taillights fading into the rain. The house stood silent, towering over me, its windows dark like eyes that had long since closed to the world. Something about the air here felt heavier than before—almost like the house was waiting for me. But that was stupid, right?

--- by drown in 2024 ---

[lawfulneutralmage]

Well written, but coming on to someone who just buried a relative is a bit ... odd.

[drown]

1 minute ago, lawfulneutralmage said:

Well written, but coming on to someone who just buried a relative is a bit ... odd.

I definitely need a beta reader for this once it takes shape.

I agree with you (and totally didn't see that).

[Jason Rimbaud]

3 hours ago, drown said:

Hey everyone 🐾

I felt very trapped in the kind of writing I did with Oregon in the Fall, so I just had to try to write something different. Today I would like to share a snippet from the very start of my story "Memory Lane" (or "Echoes of Her Silence" or "The House That Waited" …)

Any feedback (what do you feel when you read this?) would be greatly appreciated. 💙

I think I'm improving as a writer, but there is such a long way to go.

 

 

Rain hammered against the taxi’s windshield like a thousand drumming fingers, blurring the world outside into a wash of grays and blues. I pressed my forehead to the cool glass, watching the familiar landmarks of my childhood slip by like ghosts in the mist.  Everything you state in the opening paragraph is worked into the narrative in later paragraphs, opening with the word Fuck grabs the readers attention.

Fuck.

My grandma always said it was ok for me to not visit. She understood my pain of going home. But now she was dead, and had made me her sole heir in the process. Clever woman—she always had a way of guiding me without uttering a word.

It didn’t come as a surprise that she didn’t leave anything to her daughter, my mom. They hadn’t been on speaking terms, and that’s something we had in common. When I came out as gay to my parents, our relationship ended rather abruptly.

Talk about the pain. I often wondered if their fallout had been similar, a clash of values that neither could reconcile, but alas, I never asked grandma about it and that was ok. She was my family. Had been. Her house would be empty now.

Fuck.

The driver, maybe in his late thirties, had one of those clean-cut looks that somehow worked even in a small town. This sentence doesn't land for me, how does a clean cut look work in a small town? Dark hair, strong jawline, and a scruff that seemed effortlessly perfect. His eyes, sharp and a little playful, flicked toward me through the rearview mirror. He had driven me to the funeral earlier today, but I hadn’t really looked at him closely until now.

“Been a while since you’ve been back, huh?” he said, asked, breaking the steady hum of rain against the windows. His voice was deep, smooth, with a lilt that was a little too casual, like we were old friends.

I shifted in my seat, my attention pulled away from the blur of the streetlights. “Yeah. A few years.”

“Figured,” he said with a grin that I caught in the mirror. “You’ve got that ‘I-don’t-belong-here’ vibe going on.”

I chuckled quietly and asked," huffed a quiet laugh “That obvious? I left when I was 18. Basically ran and never returned.”

He shrugged, eyes back on the road. “Small towns… people notice things. Especially someone like your grandma.”

I blinked. “What do you mean?”

“She was… you know, kind of a local legend in her own way.” He grinned again, this time with a hint of something else behind it. “But I bet you already knew that.”

I looked out the window again, pretending the blur of the rain had my full attention. “Yeah, something like that.”

“I’m Dan, by the way,” he added, his tone suddenly a little lighter. “Figured we should be on a first-name basis if I’m driving you all the way back to memory lane.”

“Alex,” I said, glancing back at him. He met my gaze in the mirror, his eyes lingering a moment longer than necessary. He had that confident, easy charm, the kind that could make anyone feel noticed in all the right ways. 

“Good to meet you, Alex,” he said, and I swore there was a little extra weight behind my name when he said it.

I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I just nodded, letting the silence stretch between us until Dan broke it again.

“Your grandma,” he continued, “she was one of a kind. Used to see her around all the time—grocery store, farmer’s market. Always had something to say that was just… spot on, you know?” He glanced back at me, a soft chuckle in his throat. “Like she could read people. Kinda spooky sometimes.”

I smirked, more to myself than to him. “She was good at that.”

“And she could bake, too. I swear, I still think about those cookies she used to give out. Once she figured out my favorite, it was like she always had them waiting when I drove her somewhere. Thought that was a little more than coincidence.”

I smiled despite myself. “She was big on making people feel seen.”

Dan grinned, a flash of white teeth in the mirror. “She knew what she was doing. That’s for sure.”

We fell into a comfortable silence again, but it was charged, like there was something else just under the surface of the conversation. His eyes flicked back to me once more. “So… You sticking around, or just back for the house?”

I hadn’t thought that far ahead, but the way he said it made it feel like there was more to the question than he let on. “Not sure yet,” I said. “Guess it depends.”

“On what?” His voice dipped just slightly, casual but with a thread of curiosity that felt more personal.

I met his gaze in the mirror again. “On what happens next, I guess.”

“Well,” he said with a sly smile, “maybe things won’t be as bad as you think.”

The cab slowed as we rounded the corner onto Willow Lane, the streetlights flickering in the rain. Dan’s eyes flicked up at them briefly, his smile turning into something more playful. “Or maybe they’ll be more interesting than you expect.”

The shadows outside stretched unnaturally long, and I blinked, trying to clear my head. My emotional state wasn’t exactly stable, but something about the way the light twisted unsettled me. When I looked again, the shadows were just shadows. A trick of the light.

Dan pulled up to the house and put the car in park. He turned back toward me, leaning against the steering wheel, his grin as lopsided as ever. “Here we are. Home sweet home.”

I stared at the looming silhouette of my grandmother’s house. The once-white picket fence was now cracked and darkened with age. It looked more worn, more… tired, than I remembered. The knot in my stomach tightened.

“You sure you don’t need anything else?” Dan’s voice broke through my thoughts. His eyes lingered on mine in the mirror. “Not even a ride back later?”

I hesitated for a moment, half-expecting the tension between us to make it hard to leave the car. “I think I’m good for now,” I said, pulling out my wallet. “What do I owe you?”

He raised an eyebrow, his smile still there, but now tinged with something teasing. “Nothing. A good conversation is payment enough.”

I chuckled, shaking my head as I rifled through my wallet. “Thanks, but I’d rather not owe anyone favors my first day back.”

Dan pretended to think it over for a moment, then shrugged playfully. “Fair enough. Forty bucks.”

I handed over the cash, our fingers brushing for the briefest second. His hand lingered just a bit too long on the money before he tucked it into his jacket pocket. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, sliding out of the cab and into the rain. The cold hit me harder than I expected, the dampness sinking straight through my jacket.

Before I could shut the door, Dan leaned across the passenger seat, flashing me another grin. “Take care, Alex. And don’t be a stranger.”

I gave him a small nod as I closed the door. “Thanks, Dan.”

I watched as the cab pulled away, his taillights fading into the rain. The house stood silent, towering over me, its windows dark like eyes that had long since closed to the world. Something about the air here felt heavier than before—almost like the house was waiting for me. But that was stupid, right?

--- by drown in 2024 ---

I kind of gave my thoughts above, I have never been a fan of first person POV but what you have shared sparks a curiosity for me to continue for now.   

I mentioned the same thing as @lawfulneutralmage about the flirting, but I didn't post it first so I removed it. 

 

J

Edited December 27, 2024 by Jason Rimbaud

[drown]

4 minutes ago, Jason Rimbaud said:

I kind of gave my thoughts above, I have never been a fan of first person POV but what you have shared sparks a curiosity for me to continue for now.   

Thanks for the feedback!

I personally really enjoy first person POV, and I'm glad it's not completely off-putting to someone who doesn't prefer it.

[Jason Rimbaud]

2 minutes ago, drown said:

Thanks for the feedback!

I personally really enjoy first person POV, and I'm glad it's not completely off-putting to someone who doesn't prefer it.

Sorry I didn't clarify my comment very much. I made a few edits to your submission, just my first thoughts as I read through your piece. Not sure if you saw those when I quoted you. 

As for my comment about first person POV, I don't like to write in first person POV, I don't mind reading it, but I think it limits me as a writer to convey the story in the manner I prefer to tell it. My stories usually have lots of things that happen in a short period of time and I need multiple viewpoints to tell the story. 

BUt we're talking about you, you set up a backstory nicely, with your coming out as gay and conflict with parents, maybe grandmother didn't agree with her children, you've returned to a place you left some time earlier, maybe things have changed if the taxi driver was being so overt in flirting, you just inherited some kind of estate, lots of places and things you could explore in this tale. I would definitely continue if you posted this. Good job. 

J

[drown]

1 minute ago, Jason Rimbaud said:

Sorry I didn't clarify my comment very much. I made a few edits to your submission, just my first thoughts as I read through your piece. Not sure if you saw those when I quoted you. 

Oh I did see those. It was what my "Thanks for the feedback" referred to. Very kind. Every bit helps!

My opening is a bit superfluous, but I like the imagery, so I might need to find something else that is not established later anyway. but I really like the "Fuck." where it is as my protagonist is pulled back to the reality of his grandmother's house being empty now. She'd be gone. 

4 minutes ago, Jason Rimbaud said:

BUt we're talking about you, you set up a backstory nicely, with your coming out as gay and conflict with parents, maybe grandmother didn't agree with her children, you've returned to a place you left some time earlier, maybe things have changed if the taxi driver was being so overt in flirting, you just inherited some kind of estate, lots of places and things you could explore in this tale. I would definitely continue if you posted this. Good job. 

Thanks. I hope the whole situation reeks of unease, not just the things happening outside as we get closer to the house, but also the taxi driver himself. Not Beetlejuice levels of it, more like The Servant - M. Night Shyamalan levels of weird.

[Jason Rimbaud]

7 minutes ago, drown said:

 

My opening is a bit superfluous, but I like the imagery, so I might need to find something else that is not established later anyway. but I really like the "Fuck." where it is as my protagonist is pulled back to the reality of his grandmother's house being empty now. She'd be gone. 

 

Currently, where the fuck is, it actually doesn't pull the protagonist back into the present. The proceeding paragraph furthers the narrative, then you have the word Fuck, and the next paragraph is descriptive of the driver. Nothing happens between those two paragraphs to warrant the word usage. 

In the quoted paragraphs below, I can see ending the paragraph with her house is empty now. Followed by Fuck, then going right into the driver asking, It's been a while since you been back. after that entire exchange, describing the driver would be fine. But as it stands, the word itself, fuck, doesn't make sense to me as I read the piece cold.

That being said, you have the knowledge of where the story is heading, and a clear vision of what you want to say. As a writer, you are the final say, and I don't think either way is right or wrong, it was just my initial impression. So I'll shut up now and look for this piece when you post it. Color me intrigued. 

3 hours ago, drown said:

It didn’t come as a surprise that she didn’t leave anything to her daughter, my mom. They hadn’t been on speaking terms, and that’s something we had in common. When I came out as gay to my parents, our relationship ended rather abruptly. Talk about the pain. I often wondered if their fallout had been similar, a clash of values that neither could reconcile, but alas, I never asked grandma about it and that was ok. She was my family. Had been. Her house would be empty now.

“Been a while since you’ve been back, huh?”

Fuck

The driver, maybe in his late thirties, had one of those clean-cut looks that somehow worked even in a small town. Dark hair, strong jawline, and a scruff that seemed effortlessly perfect. His eyes, sharp and a little playful, flicked toward me through the rearview mirror. He had driven me to the funeral earlier today, but I hadn’t really looked at him closely until now.

 

[drown]

1 minute ago, Jason Rimbaud said:

That being said, you have the knowledge of where the story is heading, and a clear vision of what you want to say. As a writer, you are the final say, and I don't think either way is right or wrong, it was just my initial impression. So I'll shut up now and look for this piece when you post it. Color me intrigued. 

Thanks! Cold reads do help though.

My intention was him calling grandma his family. Then stepping back, doing a temporal adjustment in the narrative tense: "Had been." His mind realizing he just thought of grandma as being alive, which was wrong. "Her house would be empty now." This warranted the fuck for me.

But as I said, the cold reads are really helpful. This clever plan of mine doesn't really work if no one sees my smarts. Guess they're not that smart after all!

Thank you for your input! I will be working on this further, but I'll have to finish posting my other story or people will be chasing me with hatchets.