www.whyville.net Jan 23, 2011 Weekly Issue

Guest Writer

Changing Perception

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It's interesting that a writer can take one situation or setting and create two convincing perceptions. Let's explore an old wooden house on a lonely street within the outer suburbs of a busy city. Same setting, different perceptions.


As I walked down the historic street, an old ceremonious house sat untouched in the center. I stood fast staring at its French colonial style which was elegantly framed by neatly trimmed hedges. The smooth wooden paneling completed the exterior of the house. Chic green grass graced the surroundings of the marvelous structure. The sun reflected off the old antique windows, shimmering shades of pink, purple and orange. An old Tribouchina flared its artistic branches far across the open blue sky, while presenting such beautiful purple flowers. The delightful sound of chirping birds rang a soft tingle to my ears, and the delightful aromas of fresh-bloomed flowers filled the air. I started to walk down through the intricate white Iron Gate onto the delicately carved wood door of the main entrance.

As I made my way down the hallway, an antique purple rug laid beneath my feet, it felt like I was walking on a cloud of air. The long narrow room was showered in dusty antique art that hung from the wooden walls. I walked slowly down the hall until I reached an august statue that was draped with shinning jewelery and silver chains. It stood upon a stone carved platform in the center of the majestic room. I continued through the house, bouncing off every wooden floorboard and passing every carved door until I reached the kitchen. The large room was filled with glistering utensils, shinning off the sun that was beaming through the antique window. As I stood there in amazement, a swift cool breeze ran through the room, gently gliding over my face, like a soft whisper to the ear. The room started to fill with various exotic aromas, filling my nostrils with intrigue and delight.

I started to walk back down the grand hallway, striding upon the soft gentle rug. I took another glance at the antique art that was still hanging from the towering walls. The shining light was just barely seen through the cracks of the old wooden door. I made my way up to the entrance, then placed my hand over the cool iron doorknob, and turned it until free. I stepped over the slight raising of the door, until outside. The scenic sun was just setting over the commanding mountaintops. I stood still in awe looking back to the incredible sight of the amazing house which stood tall and proud.


The old rusty house stood slumped in the center of the ruined street. The overgrown grass towered beyond the rugged windows. Old trees lent against the old wooden house, producing a slant to the side. The horrid driveway was lined with gangly shrubs and the windows were smashed and broken. I started to walk up the dirt path to the front door that towered high into the moldy wooden walls. I placed my hand upon the rusted iron door handle that was coarse and rough. The rugged flairs of iron sliced my skin, leaving me with a bleeding palm.

As I made my way down the narrow hallway, I felt the threadbare carpeting beneath my feet. Each step seemed to disrupt the dust that plumed out around my toes. I turned left through an arched doorway. I found myself entering a cramped room with scattered old artworks hanging from the moldy walls. Dusty cloth sheets laid on the floor. It was obvious that they had once covered furniture that was long gone, used for kindle to create the squatters fires.


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