Many people are uncomfortable around people or things that are different. I have started to write a story about a house on a block, 52c. Visitors will have different experiences with this block depending on their openness. I would love some feedback on my description of this block, as this will be the prologue for each story.
52c was a place where life thrived, in its own unique way. A place so unusual that even Google maps, didn’t recognize its existence, where number 52c should have been marked there was just an absolutely empty lot.
But 52c was a block in a street like any other.
A street, where lawns were mowed, gardens clipped, paths swept and households knew what was expected; nothing would dare to be out of place and nothing was.
Except 52c, whose presence sprawls beyond the council marked boundary.
Kids riding bikes increased their speed as they approached 52c, the raised roots of its trees sending their bikes at irregular angles. Mothers with babies crying in prams would roll the prams back and forwards over the roots, knowing but not understanding why, their babies soon fell asleep. Even from a distance, the overhanging plants appeared alive, with their branches reaching out to touch those who dared to pause too close.
The trees of 52c provided shelter for birds, where constant treetop chatter, would drown out the noise of surrounding suburban taming machines, of lawn mowers and whipper snippers.
It was unsettling, neighbors said, things lived at 52c without boundaries of concrete and weed killer.