An attempt at writing...

This is my first attempt at writing a fictional novel/novella. Please tell me what you honestly think. Is it worth the read, should I continue?

THE CHILDREN OF CHERRY HILL COTTAGE

The cold, wet, wind cuts through me like a knife. My hands and feet are like blocks of ice. As I am walking home from the schoolhouse where I teach, I am bowed over to keep the biting icy wind from stinging my face. I pull my cloak closer around me hoping to keep some of the chill at bay. Frozen crystal droplets fall from the sky in an ever quickening pace as I hurry along my way. I watch as my feet take labored step after step as I attempt to scurry a little faster, but my heavily sodden skirt is making it difficult to trudge up the treacherous snow-lined walk towards the homestead. As I round the corner, I look up for a brief second, to get my bearings, and up ahead I see the beautiful sight of home before me with candlelight glowing from inside the gabled windows. I long for the warmth exuding from within and I picture myself standing before the toasty warm fire I know that Emma has already laid and set for me. Just another two blocks and I will be there. With renewed vigor, I shuffle forth up the hill, hoping with all my heart that James, Edward, and Charles are already there to greet me. What a grand time we will have once we are all together again.

My three brothers and I grew up together at Cherry Hill Cottage, located just a few miles north of Bayberry and Nord'sHill. The “cottage” as we call it, is nothing of the sort, but a monstrosity of a structure, three stories tall with add-on sections or wings jutting out here and there in various directions from the main hub of the house.

In my view, walking up Cherry Hill Road, from the crossroads of Apple Cake Lane, my memory is transported back to earlier days, when my brothers and I were young and we played during the spring time in the orchard to the back of our house, underneath the falling cherry blossoms. Our sense of sight and smell were heightened by the blue skies, pink blooms, and green grass, as we frolicked the day away in sparkling sunlight and dappled shade, or at least until Momma would call us in for supper and bedtime chores.

However, my warm and sunny recollection is suddenly interrupted by an icy blast of bitter winter wind and I find myself standing in a slush puddle of sleet and snow. I stamp as much of the wet off my lace-up boots as I can manage, setting my feet to tingling from the exertion. I set off in a rush once again towards home in search of such wonderful creature comforts as a blazing fire in the fireplace, a warm mug brimming with hot mulled cider, the tempting aromas coming from Emma's kitchen as she prepares this evening's welcome home feast "for the boys", and the receipt of many a bear-hug from all three of the nomadic scoundrels I call my brothers.