Lizabeth's House: A Narrative Fiction

I am sitting in my old brown broken down rocking chair, staring at my sweet yellow marigolds and then glancing at the half-dawn light, which fills the sky with a strange and frightening feeling. The cool, fresh, summer breeze tickles my toes and makes me shiver. The screeching radio from my son’s room lures me into my ramshackle of a house.
I yell, “turn down the volume on that darn radio and catch some shut-eye my sweet John, we have a big day tomorrow.”
“I’ll get right on that momma Lottie, goodnight and sweet dreams,” John replies.
I am feeling very tired; it’s already about four a.m., and I truly should get to bed; therefore, I walk straight over to my rough hard mattress and lay down in the hope of falling gently into a dream. My constant memories of Lizabeth and her friends raising havoc in my yard stops me from having my sweet dreams. These awful memories of those darn kids keep on rushing through my head. In my head, I can see Lizabeth throwing stones at me and the kids surrounding me chanting “Old lady witch”. I can picture their devious faces, their evil grins, and laughs. I toss and turn trying to get these awful memories out of my head. I start to feel paranoid as if
I see a woman who has bottled up all feeling of hate from her family’s poverty and when the bottle began to overfill, she exploded into a furious frenzy. Lizabeth seems to be a woman stuck in poverty that feels like a flamingo stuck in a cage. The flamingo is born in captivity and feels to be free, but doesn't know why or how. Very much like the flamingo, Lizabeth is born into poverty and feels like she can achieve great things, but doesn't know why or how, since poverty is all any of us knows. I sense that Lizabeth realizes I’m not a witch, but an old lady who tries to create beauty in the ugly hopeless world in which we live