AYJW

Parrot Trick Training

Poicephalus

Parrot Forum

      It used to be called Prospect Manor, but we knew it as the ash house. Nobody could remember when it got the nickname. It must have been after it burnt down. After the man that lived there had, according to legend, gone crazy, killed his wife and two kids and then burned himself alive inside. None of us remembered this happening, we were too young, but we all believed it. As much as we loved our hideaway, we feared it.
     The Manor was huge once, towering over even the trees. From the main road the driveway sloped upwards, not very steep, but so long that by the time you reached the four-car garage you could look down on the entire town. The sidewalk was paved in small stone squares and it led up to a foreboding gray door. The windows were a strange form of trapezoid, which made them seem to slant upwards as if they were looking for something, but didn’t really expect to find it. The mixture of wood and stone exterior was awkward, yet somehow beautiful. That was, until the fire. It was a slow fire to begin, but being so secluded from everything else it had time to devour the house. By the time anyone called the fire station the windows were broken, flames spewing out of them, and the door had been crushed by the falling stone. The firemen only showed up in time to save the woods surrounding the house. Nothing remained unchanged except for the long path that led you to the ruins, the driveway.
      I now climbed this driveway, not thinking of the house it used to lead to, or the family torn apart within it, but of my own family. It was New Year’s Eve and I had left my father alone to celebrate, except I knew that would consist of him drinking himself to sleep before Dick Clark ever began to count down from ten. I know now that I should have stayed with him, but all I wanted that night was to get away. That’s all my mom had wanted too, but she was the one with enough courage to leave him for good. She told me that she just felt suffocated and needed to leave, and that I could go with her if I wanted, but I couldn’t. I could leave my father, and what he called our home, but I couldn’t leave the ash house.
      I drove up alone, after my dad was drunk enough that he wouldn’t notice me leaving. Officer Ryan stopped me on the way. He figured I was going up to the ash house and asked if I had any weed. I sold him what I had because I knew there’d be enough to go around when I got there. None of us really understood why he was a cop because he seemed to spend more time smoking with us than enforcing the law, but he never got us in any trouble, so we enjoyed his company. He said his shift was over in an hour and that he’d come up after that to hang out.
      Around the curve in the road, sharp left, bear right and I could see the driveway. From all the cars arching towards me I knew the path was full. I had to park on the road and walk up. By the time I made it half way I could see the glow of fires on the trees. Small bits of old torn-down caution tape led the way to my friends, anxiously anticipating the New Year. As much as I had looked forward to this night, I almost didn’t want to go. I thought that maybe if I didn’t celebrate this night that it would never really come. I would never have to graduate and move away. I would never have to leave the ash house.
      I came to the top of the path and my usual friends welcomed me. Within seconds I had a joint in one hand and a beer in the other and it suddenly became easy to forget all of my worries. I sat down at one of the makeshift fire circle. Most of the regulars were at this circle, with the addition of some kid I didn’t know who was trying to show off. He kept jumping over the fire, saying he was a superhero. We all knew he was drunk, and that we should stop him, but it was the most amusement I’d had all night so I let him go for a little longer. Once he stopped the leaping he focused in on a girl I knew. I heard their conversation off and on, but didn’t pay much attention. I was too focused on the house. It could have been the fires, but the house had a glow to it that night, like it was alive.
      I suddenly heard a slap that woke me out of my thoughts. The drunk boy fell to the ground along with his pants, which had been dropped a few moments before. I ran over to my friend to make sure she was okay, and then turned to the boy. He stumbled to his feet in an attempt to look like he wasn’t in pain. I told him to go home, but he refused to leave. He rambled on about everyone there being inferior. He said he was God. A crowd had developed around us and someone shouted that if he was God he should prove it. He thought for a few seconds about how he could prove his power and without saying a word began to walk over to the house. Nobody went within ten feet of the house. Half of us thought it was too dangerous, that it could still crumble, and the other half was just afraid of its legend.
      He began to climb. We rushed over, but everyone was too scared to chase him up. I watched people’s eyes follow him as he placed one leg and then the other over a giant beam that protruded out. He was heading for the chimney. There were yells for him to come down because it wasn’t safe to climb over all the glass and broken planks. If he were to fall he would surely break a few bones. There were yells for him to keep going. He slipped a few times with the expected gasps and yelps of excitement. But after a few minutes he reached what was left of the chimney.
      He wasn’t very far off the ground, only about twenty feet, maybe twenty-five. To us, he was on top of the world. He was the only one who was ever brave enough to conquer this beast that was so ugly, and yet so familiar and comforting to us all. We watched in awe and he held up his arms to show his pride. Just then Officer Ryan pulled up the driveway, flashing his lights just for fun. Some of the newer kids who weren’t used to his arrivals ran into the woods. The boy on top of the world wasn’t used to this either and started to run down the mountain of debris. But it’s hard to run away from something that it took you so long to conquer. It doesn’t matter if he tripped on a stair rail, or a broken windowsill, or the mantel. He tripped. He fell. He tumbled down the side like a helpless rag doll. There was nothing to break his fall except the cold ground and broken glass. We watched as his body thumped down and remained there, lifeless.
      Officer Ryan rushed out of his car, and then back to call the paramedics. He told everyone to leave, and some did. But most of the regulars stayed, mainly because we didn’t like the idea of adults on our territory. The ambulance couldn’t get up the driveway so the two men in blue ran up not taking any notice of the caution tape or the fires. We all knew before they got there that it would be too late. Slowly, after he was taken away, we all left. Nobody paid attention to the fact that we had forgotten to count down to our new beginning. I stayed until the last fire was put out. I watched the ashes as they grew smaller and faded from red to orange and then eventually to black. I watched the last car creep down the hill and turn towards its home. I walked down the old driveway, half knowing that I would never go back up.
      It took less than a week for the town to put an end to our dangerous hangout. We weren’t allowed to go up that hill anymore, even though nobody other than me had any desire to. It, of course, was a shock to Officer Ryan that we had used the old Prospect Manor as a spot to carry out our illegal activities. He was praised for keeping alert even after his shift was over, and noticing the rowdy party up by the old Prospect Manor. Nobody was ever punished, or even caught really, but the cops patrolled the area day and night, and a new plan for the real estate soon went into effect.
     My burnt down house is gone now. It’s long since been replaced with planned housing. Each home looks the same, white brick siding, bright yellow doors, perfect square windows and concrete sidewalks. The only difference between any house and another was whether the flowers in the three-by-six garden out front were white or yellow. Where our fire circles were that night there are now playgrounds and swimming pools, overpopulated with yelling children and harried mothers. Where the trees were, there are now mini-vans and welcome signs. The driveway that once lead to my haven is now the main road to what they call Prospect Manor – a community of hope.