Miraculous Mike
When I think back to when I was little, I always remember my dad trying to keep me and my sisters happy. When I was bored, he'd bring me into the backyard and play catch...
Stories
Original fiction by young writers ages 8-13
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When I think back to when I was little, I always remember my dad trying to keep me and my sisters happy. When I was bored, he'd bring me into the backyard and play catch with me, or do some sort of activity along those lines. I remember when he took me to my first baseball game, and got me this cool mini baseball bat that I really wanted.
Stifling a yawn, Jenna jerked the front door open, goosebumps forming on her bare arms in the icy morning air. Jenna scuttled hastily to the edge of the driveway, snatching up the morning newspaper. Just about to turn back to the house, she noticed a strange lump on the other side of the yard, just beneath the azalea bush.
Frowning in puzzlement, Jenna approached cautiously.
Rhia thought she was an ordinary girl. From her mousy brown hair to her average height, she was not physically remarkable. Her life was ordinary, too. Every weekday she woke up, went to school, got good grades, came home, and did her homework.
When she arrived home one afternoon in March, her mother had a very telling look on her face. This was an ordinary occurrence at this time each year.
Toly hid among the tall grasses of the tropical forest. He could feel the cold sweat trickling down his face. The tiger was standing close now, so close Toly could feel its pulsing breath. The vibrant black and orange of the tiger's coat hurt his eyes. It couldn't see him; only the tiger's keen sense of smell told it Toly was there.
It wasn't the best night for the race. Earlier that afternoon, a torrential downpour had drenched the ground. The air was thick and humid and the sky a murky gray soup. Dense fog was beginning to envelop the landscape. The tote board flashed the condition of the track—SLOPPY.
Judy Garland was depressed. She had trained hard for weeks, enduring the whiplashes of her rider, Jose Montegna.
I'm spinning, spinning, spinning, my eyes closed. My hair brushes against the soft mossy grass and the sounds of traffic are distant, but I'm aware of them. Two arms—are they mine?—are holding onto the tire swing comfortably, not gripping but giving me a feeling that if I fall I'm not falling too far. It doesn't feel like my eyes are closed. It feels like they're not there at all.
I hiked up the rocky trail that led to the place I knew so well. Tiny drops of rain fell from the dark sky. A cool mist lingered over the ground. The boughs of the elms that had grown over the path brushed my face. Normally, we would have cut the branches back, but now that my grandpa was gone it seemed as though nothing should be disturbed; as if by changing the things around him we would be doin...
Sunlight streamed through the stormy clouds and a rainbow seemed to end over the field beside me. For a moment I remembered the childhood saying that treasure could be found at the end of the rainbow. I laughed, but glanced over the field anyway. There I saw tender green leaves in tidy rows, yet untouched by the weeds.
Our power was gone again. The house was at least sixty years old, I say sesenta, but we moved in a few weeks ago. The rain was slamming into the earth like a fist. Trees outside bent their heads in awe of the storm. I thought, this was the kind of weather when my abuela, or grandmother, once sang songs and drank hot black coffee.
I had never had anyone my age who lived on my street. All of my friends lived at least ten minutes away. I had always envied those who could call up their friends whenever they were bored and say, "Hey, want to get together?" My mom told many fond stories of her adventures with neighborhood kids when she was little.
When Jessica moved into the house across the street, I was thrilled.