The Giving Stone
I stared at my shoes as I walked to the 6th grade door. I sighed, and pushed some of my long, dark brown hair out of my face. It was a Monday, and on Saturday,...
Stories
Original fiction by young writers ages 8-13
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I stared at my shoes as I walked to the 6th grade door. I sighed, and pushed some of my long, dark brown hair out of my face. It was a Monday, and on Saturday, the worst thing ha happened. My parakeet Willow died. Willow was my best friend; she was always there to cheer me up when I was sad, play when I was bored, or simply make me smile.
“Go to your room!” my mom shouted. “It’s not all because of Rose—it just didn’t work out this year!”
“Didn’t work out because of her!” I said and stomped upstairs into my room. I knew I was acting like a baby. As my strict English teacher, Mrs. Hood, would say, “Grade six or age six?
I was young when it happened—a mere eight-years-old. Daddy had gone out one day for work . . . and hadn't come back. The funeral was impossible to bear. Mama was crying hysterically, and the grey-streaked sky pounded down fat, round tears. That night though, Mama took me outside after dinner. The sky was calm then, and a warm breeze tickled my fingers and lazily tossed my hair around.
It was a tall, weather-beaten building with countless weather-beaten balconies jutting out of its sides. Milo, a plump and red-faced 9-year-old, had felt unsafe in the top floor drafty apartment since his grandma had sold her oceanside cottage and deposited him and his loyal and fat cat Ella into this leaning block of misery last July.
You would think that a princess's life would be amazing and magical but it's not how it seems. I sit on a bed in a tower. Every day. Always nervous. Having that one feeling where you have knots in your stomach. That something would happen. Something evil, something terrible. But every day it was the same: the same voices outside, the same hands handing me food through a slot in the wall.
Sunrays pour into the old slider window, illuminating the white-washed walls of the bedroom; posters and certificates are plastered on the opposite wall, their color faded from years of sun. A little girl is curled up in bed, clutching the blankets in fitful sleep. I sigh and gaze through the window at the pale blue sky, which is undisturbed by occasional clouds.
That morning at breakfast, Dylan sat perched on his usual seat at the table, sketching happily. I grabbed the milk and a spoon and sat down. I poured myself a heaping bowl of Cheerios, most of which spilled on the table. Dylan’s pencil scribbled away, and he periodically blew huge breaths over his paper to get rid of the shreds of eraser.
The sun raised its head over a cold California coast. This sun was a special sun. It was the first sun of the year. There was to be a special gathering at the beach. It is what is called a “paddle-out.” Cars slowly gathered at the beach. The people inside the cars exited and came to the shore. No one talked, all they did was look at the horizon, which was light red from the coming sun.
As I look around me, surveying my surroundings, everything seems different. The sunlight that is spilling onto the ocean sparkles like a thousand gems, and I’m lead to wonder if there actually are a thousand gems floating on the clear surface. The palm trees sweep over me, like protectors, never tiring of providing me shade. A seagull whooshes over me, bringing freedom to my body, also.
Stella huddled against the side of the house, eyes slitted against the blowing snow. The wind whistled in the small cat’s ears, slicing through her gray fur and making her tremble uncontrollably. Her teeth chattered, and her paws were numb. She let out a miserable mewl. “Why, oh why, did I ever leave home?