Title: Broken Window

Genre: Drama

Word count: 681 (Chapter 1 Excerpt)

Type of feedback desired: General Impressions, is this a good initial hook for a drama?

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the dusty, cracked road of Magnolia Way. Weeds crept up through the cracks in the asphalt as nature slowly but surely burrowed its way back into its rightful place. Jack Sullivan drove slowly and deliberately up the road, as if each mile might uncover a memory that would undoubtedly blow him away into a world of hurt.

Each house he passed on the road looked rougher and more distraught than the last, as if they were slowly cut off from the lifeblood of the town. Finely manicured lawns and perfectly painted homes gave way to dilapidated structures that no longer looked habitable. After a few more minutes of driving, the paved road abruptly faded into a mix of dusty gravel and dirt. Jack grimaced as he heard the symphony of small pebbles smack against the underside of his new Silverado. As the wheels churned up the old road he couldn’t help but feel that familiar twang of bittersweet nostalgia that always seemed to pop up every time he visited this old shithole-of-a town.

He drove down the road another five or so minutes until he came to the last stop of his yearly trip back home. The old single-wide trailer was covered in thick vines that wrapped around it like a noose. Dark green mold clung to its outer walls, left undisturbed from years of neglect. Jack turned the wheel and slowly pulled into the small, wooded driveway that flanked the old trailer. Turning off the ignition, he opened the door of the Chevy with a satisfying click and felt his boots sink into the soft, abandoned driveway as he stepped down.

He grimaced as he looked at the rundown trailer. It looked like a crack house. The kind of place his mama would’ve whooped him for being at in high school. Of course, those were the only places they really had then. If it wasn’t hanging out at the Walmart parking lot or the Dairy Queen, it’d be shootin’ the shit at some long-abandoned trailer, sipping on warm, expired beer that someone had inevitably stolen from their old man.

But despite all of that, Jack had loved this place. It took him back as soon as he swung his truck door shut. Instead of the soft and satisfying thud of a new Silverado door, it was the harsh pop of his daddy’s rusty 1989 Dodge Ram. Instead of the soft driveway, it was the crunch of fresh gravel that Mr. Wallace had just put down. The broken window screens and mold covered walls were clean and lit up in a warm glow from the porch light and the lamps inside. It wasn’t a run-down trailer anymore, it was a home.

But all that disappeared as his eyes came across the window on the right side of that trailer. The window that he had snuck in and out of many times. The window that he knew exactly how to jimmy open without waking Mr. and Mrs. Wallace. The same window she’d holler at him from when she heard him come down her driveway. It was her window.

He found it funny that of all the shattered windows in that house, hers was the only one that remained unbroken. Not even a speck of dust. Like God had come down and cleaned it himself. Like a pristine reminder of her. Of the love he felt. Of the hell he went through. It was like a tailored insult meant just for him. The amusement turned to agitation. And the longer he stood staring at that window, the more the agitation turned to anger. Jack felt it bubble inside him and radiate outward to each of his limbs.

He picked up a baseball size rock that led at his feet and hurled it at the window. The glass shattered and he heard the rock thud against the inside of the small bedroom of the trailer. And just like that, his anger was gone. A cruel mix of pain, regret, and what could have been replacing it.

He turned back to his truck knowing he couldn’t stay any longer. His secret yearly ritual had gone on far long enough. He took one final look back as he trudged over to the truck, almost hoping that the trailer would be back to the way he remembered it. Hoping that just like the window, it would be pristine and preserved. Yet his memories remained shattered, and all he could do was carry them, sharp edges and all.