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"Angel on the Landing" by jaybezo

A short story about childhood, taking responsibility for your own happiness, and honoring what you love.

Category: Article / Essay

Tags: childhood, finding/rediscovering oneself

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When I was 10, we moved to a house on 9th Street in northwest Washington, DC, about a block down from Georgia Ave. The back yard was so over grown with weeds, that it took the six of us two full days to chop them all down, and we were surprised to find steps at one end, leading to an upper level. In the corner of the upper yard was a mulberry tree, and I spent much of my childhood up in that tree.


I was skinny and boney, neither boy nor girl yet – just another child. I could scramble up that tree in a few seconds, and from the top be both hidden and have a view of the world – my world, small though it was.


In the spring I stuffed myself with mulberries. The greenish white ones were hard and unripe and would give you a stomach ache if you ate them. The pinkish-purple ones were softer and sweeter, but the prized ones were fat, soft, and deep purple and oh-so-sweet, if you could beat the birds to them. I was a berry-picking machine, moving from branch to branch, scanning for deep purple, grabbing, stuffing, having them burst in my mouth, and always wanting more.

I ate until my fingers and lips turned purple, and never thought to offer any to anyone else. They were my secret treasure. Others should climb the tree if they wanted any.


One spring we found an abandoned kitten on the street and brought it to my mother, asking if we could keep it. We placed it in her lap and she looked down at it, and knowing the feeling of helplessness herself, she said we could keep it.

It became mine. I loved that cat with a wild passion, sometimes caressing it, other times kicking it away, but always feeling a kinship to it. We connected.


By the following spring, the cat was pregnant. Every day I ran home to see how she was. One day I could not find her, and I knew – she had gone to have the kittens. There are no hiding places in a house with young children – all are known. It was only a matter of time before I found her in a dark corner of the basement. She was in pain. It never occurred to me that she would not trust me.

I went to her, petted her, said soothing things. She let me. I held her paw as she gave birth. I saw six kittens born that day. They were our children. I would help her raise them.


After a few weeks, the kittens grew into adorable little fluff balls. They knew me and came running when I came down the basement stairs. Sometimes one got caught behind the washing machine or separated from the others, but I always found them and rescued them. We played until we all got sleepy and I often fell asleep in the basement, surrounded by cat and kittens, waking only when my mother called me for dinner or bed.


I already spent a lot of time in the basement, anyway. I had taken up violin that year, and the only place I could practice was in the basement, because it got on my mother’s nerves. I tried to practice when she was not around, but it was doomed from the start. One day my brothers got into the violin case, and goofing around, broke one of the strings. Saying nothing, they put it away again. I did not find out until I went to class the following week. The teacher scolded me, told me to buy a replacement “D” string, and sent me off.


Then came the problem of telling my folks. I avoided it for several days, then finally told my mother. She had no idea what to do about it, and was upset that I had burdened her with it. I told my father and he was angry. Where would the money come from? I wished I was back up in the tree.


A week later, a small paper packet showed up on my chest-of-drawers. It was a violin string. I duly took it to the music teacher, who glanced it, said: “This is not a “D” string.”, and gave it back to me. I gave up. Unfortunately, I was still required to play at the spring concert. They put me in the front row. The teacher gave me a new string. I hadn’t practiced in months, could barely play “Hot Cross Buns”. I watched the other children and mimicked their movements, trying not to press too hard on the bow so the screeching sounds I made would not be heard. Then it was over.


I only played the violin one other time – the following Christmas. My mother always gave a Christmas party, and we all worked for weeks to get the house perfect. The four kids were sent upstairs, to go to sleep, which was impossible. Sometimes we’d sneak notes down to friends of the family: “ Bring Us Free Toes.” And sometimes they would.


This year, it was late and the last of the guests were leaving. Most of them were slightly tipsy by then. Upstairs, my older sister had been helping me make wings for my costume for the church play. We had just finished and were admiring them, when a thought hit me. I slipped into my white gown, put on the wings, and grabbed my violin. Silently, I went to the stair landing, just above the door where guests were leaving. I placed the violin on my shoulder, held it with my chin, and lifted the bow. I started playing.


Startled, the drunken guests looked up to see an angel on the landing, playing a violin sweetly. I don’t remember if they laughed or smiled – just their shock as they looked up. At that moment, I was proud of myself, and of my creation of a special moment.



















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Category Name: Mechanics

The story contained so many mechanical errors that it was hard to follow the piece or understand certain sentences or paragraphs. Occasional mechanical errors were distracting, but these errors did not inhibit me from being able to understand the piece or understand what the author intended to convey. I rarely if ever noticed mechanical errors. As far as I could tell, the writing was clear and correct.

Mechanics includes sentence structure, verb agreement, grammar, spelling, voice, punctuation and aspects of basic style.

Note: The purpose of Review Fuse reviews is NOT to provide comprehensive copy editing, but rather to provide constructive criticism. Reviewers should not feel obliged to point out every grammar or spelling error (though they certainly can if they wish), but should focus on this area only to the degree that errors make a story hard to follow or understand.

Category Name: Structure

The organization needs to be improved. This piece was cluttered and unconvincing. The organization was okay. The ideas were generally organized and mostly convincing. The organization of this piece was outstanding. The ideas were organized very well and presented in a convincing manner.

Category Name: Voice

The voice was not strong, consistent, or appropriate in this piece. This piece’s style and grasp of language need serious improvement. The voice was generally strong, consistent and appropriate. This style was good and the grasp of language adequate. The voice was delivered in a strong, consistent, and appropriate manner. This piece was skillfully styled and demonstrated a strong grasp of language.

Category Name: Subject Matter

My terminal insomnia has been cured. The subject matter was presented in a very dull and cursory manner. The examples did not illustrate the points well. I found this piece fairly interesting and the examples somewhat effective in illustrating the points. It could have been a bit more thorough. The subject matter very interesting, thoroughly presented, and the examples helped illustrate the points perfectly.

Category Name: Logic

The sentences did not flow and transition naturally. The ideas were presented out of order and hard to follow which discredited the argument(s). Overall the sentences flowed and transitioned naturally. The ideas were generally presented in orderwell ordered and easy to follow which strengthened the argument(s). The sentences flowed and transitioned naturally. The ideas were presented in orderwell ordered and easy to follow which solidified the argument(s).

Inline comments are the most helpful and important aspects of your review.

Click on a paragraph or highlight text from the paragraph to provide inline comments. While detailed grammar correction is welcome, the purpose of inline commenting is to spark the author's creativity. This is best done by expressing feelings, questions, and concerns you have about the story while you are reading.

1. When I was 10, we moved to a house on 9th Street in northwest Washington, DC, about a block down from Georgia Ave. The back yard was so over grown with weeds, that it took the six of us two full days to chop them all down, and we were surprised to find steps at one end, leading to an upper level. In the corner of the upper yard was a mulberry tree, and I spent much of my childhood up in that tree.

2.

3. I was skinny and boney, neither boy nor girl yet – just another child. I could scramble up that tree in a few seconds, and from the top be both hidden and have a view of the world – my world, small though it was.

4.

5. In the spring I stuffed myself with mulberries. The greenish white ones were hard and unripe and would give you a stomach ache if you ate them. The pinkish-purple ones were softer and sweeter, but the prized ones were fat, soft, and deep purple and oh-so-sweet, if you could beat the birds to them. I was a berry-picking machine, moving from branch to branch, scanning for deep purple, grabbing, stuffing, having them burst in my mouth, and always wanting more.

6. I ate until my fingers and lips turned purple, and never thought to offer any to anyone else. They were my secret treasure. Others should climb the tree if they wanted any.

7.

8. One spring we found an abandoned kitten on the street and brought it to my mother, asking if we could keep it. We placed it in her lap and she looked down at it, and knowing the feeling of helplessness herself, she said we could keep it.

9. It became mine. I loved that cat with a wild passion, sometimes caressing it, other times kicking it away, but always feeling a kinship to it. We connected.

10.

11. By the following spring, the cat was pregnant. Every day I ran home to see how she was. One day I could not find her, and I knew – she had gone to have the kittens. There are no hiding places in a house with young children – all are known. It was only a matter of time before I found her in a dark corner of the basement. She was in pain. It never occurred to me that she would not trust me.

12. I went to her, petted her, said soothing things. She let me. I held her paw as she gave birth. I saw six kittens born that day. They were our children. I would help her raise them.

13.

14. After a few weeks, the kittens grew into adorable little fluff balls. They knew me and came running when I came down the basement stairs. Sometimes one got caught behind the washing machine or separated from the others, but I always found them and rescued them. We played until we all got sleepy and I often fell asleep in the basement, surrounded by cat and kittens, waking only when my mother called me for dinner or bed.

15.

16. I already spent a lot of time in the basement, anyway. I had taken up violin that year, and the only place I could practice was in the basement, because it got on my mother’s nerves. I tried to practice when she was not around, but it was doomed from the start. One day my brothers got into the violin case, and goofing around, broke one of the strings. Saying nothing, they put it away again. I did not find out until I went to class the following week. The teacher scolded me, told me to buy a replacement “D” string, and sent me off.

17.

18. Then came the problem of telling my folks. I avoided it for several days, then finally told my mother. She had no idea what to do about it, and was upset that I had burdened her with it. I told my father and he was angry. Where would the money come from? I wished I was back up in the tree.

19.

20. A week later, a small paper packet showed up on my chest-of-drawers. It was a violin string. I duly took it to the music teacher, who glanced it, said: “This is not a “D” string.”, and gave it back to me. I gave up. Unfortunately, I was still required to play at the spring concert. They put me in the front row. The teacher gave me a new string. I hadn’t practiced in months, could barely play “Hot Cross Buns”. I watched the other children and mimicked their movements, trying not to press too hard on the bow so the screeching sounds I made would not be heard. Then it was over.

21.

22. I only played the violin one other time – the following Christmas. My mother always gave a Christmas party, and we all worked for weeks to get the house perfect. The four kids were sent upstairs, to go to sleep, which was impossible. Sometimes we’d sneak notes down to friends of the family: “ Bring Us Free Toes.” And sometimes they would.

23.

24. This year, it was late and the last of the guests were leaving. Most of them were slightly tipsy by then. Upstairs, my older sister had been helping me make wings for my costume for the church play. We had just finished and were admiring them, when a thought hit me. I slipped into my white gown, put on the wings, and grabbed my violin. Silently, I went to the stair landing, just above the door where guests were leaving. I placed the violin on my shoulder, held it with my chin, and lifted the bow. I started playing.

25.

26. Startled, the drunken guests looked up to see an angel on the landing, playing a violin sweetly. I don’t remember if they laughed or smiled – just their shock as they looked up. At that moment, I was proud of myself, and of my creation of a special moment.

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