I would love some feedback on my new Prologue for my stories Adventures from 52C, 52C’s magic sends children on adventures in real locations in the world today
I am Fifty-two-C.
Within my place life thrives, in its own unique way.
‘A plot of land so unusual that even Google maps doesn’t recognise
it’s existence. Instead Google leaves the plot empty, where other
plots around, have their number.
That is how it should be, non-existent, empty of all
the rubbish and out of control plants’
July Council meeting; Quote from frustrated neighbour.
But I exist, I am block of land in a street like any other.
A street, where lawns were mowed, gardens were clipped and paths were swept. Households knew what was expected; nothing would dare to be out of place and nothing was.
But, my presence sprawled beyond the Surveyor’s boundary.
Kids riding bikes increased their speed as they approached me, the raised roots of my trees sending their bikes twisting at irregular angles. Mothers with babies crying in prams would roll the prams back and forward over these same roots, knowing but not understanding why their babies soon fell asleep. Even from a distance, my overhanging branches were teeming with life; and rumours spread that my trees’ branches would reach out to touch those who dared go too near.
52C is a place of shelter, for those in need. My trees, where constant treetop chatter drowns out the noise of those taming machines; the lawn mowers and whipper snippers.
‘The house and yard were in such a state; I’m sure a plague of rats
live there. Whenever I went inside Mrs Sage’s house, after the death
of Mr Sage, it was so crowded inside that Mrs Sage did not need
her walking frame! She used the different piles of books, statues and
furniture, to steady herself as she walked from room to room.’
Many of my neighbours hope Mrs Sage never leaves the retirement home. Maya’s Mum and Dad agreed that, 52c weren’t right for their neighbourhood, and asserted, brought down the value of their houses.
It was unsettling, neighbours said, things lived within me without obeying the boundaries of concrete and weed killer
Much of what they say is true. My garden is over grown, as no one has been here to manage it. But they should look beyond the overgrown garden and house in need of a clean.
I have three ancient trees, rose bushes that twine themselves into neighbouring bushes, gardenias and bright coloured flowers that come up in spring. I am an old piece of land, the Wallumedega people lived on my land.
My own modern story started in about 1896, men came and cleared part of my land for an orchard. Then in 1897 a man bought my land, soon after he built a home for his family. Gradually sections of my land were sold to different people. They built homes for their families.
After the first World War the family sold me and convalescing soldiers and nurse filled my rooms. At the start of the second World War, there was a need for more housing, so my house was divided into three flats. In these flats singles, small families, couples or singles lived. In 1972 Mr and Mrs Sage bought the whole house and rearranged back, to one house.
The Sages were anthropologists, and they filled my yard and house with individual items from their visits to different cultures. There was a font from East Timor that they used as a bird bath; a strange buoy from Vietnam and along the front of the house were many masks, one with a huge smile was from the Philippines. Now, I make use of the individuality each item has, plus a touch of my own magic to nurture three specific children. I could tell you many stories, Maya is one of my stories.
I often watched Maya as she passed, her head down and her eyes always moving. Her hand moved too – over a white sheets of paper, leaving images of insects, lizards and leaves. Maya, from a distance looked like most of the other young people who walk past. This year she she was wearing a new uniform, the same as those who passed her. She was average height, with bright sky blue eyes, normally hiding behind long blonde hair.
One particular day, Maya stood opposite my letterbox. I felt her sadness and frustration with people, especially her teachers, who obsessed about her writing problems and called her drawings doodles. But as she drew, the muscles of her face relaxed.
Maya was unaware of being drawn into my yard, and to the mask made of junk. So I could send her on an adventure. Where who knows what she might discover…..
It is by my magic, Maya travelled.