Honesty
It was a freezing cold winter day in China. My family and I were visiting my beloved paternal grandmother who lives in ZhengZhou, a city in China. And this time we were celebrating the Chinese...
Stories
Original fiction by young writers ages 8-13
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It was a freezing cold winter day in China. My family and I were visiting my beloved paternal grandmother who lives in ZhengZhou, a city in China. And this time we were celebrating the Chinese New Year with her.
It was said that eating oranges during the special occasion is meant for good luck. Being superstitious, my father and I went to the market to buy a few before the big day.
Salt sea spray brushed against my cheek as I paced placidly along my beach. Well, not my beach, technically, but that's what I fondly call it. My adoptive mother, Elnore, says every time it's a nice day out, "It's a day for your beach, Shayla, go and capture it." So that's where I am now, on a beach where your thoughts break loose from a cage called your mind, and take off into the sky.
She slung her leg over the side of the hammock and sighed. It was the sigh alone that told the story of her boredom, the story of being dragged out to visit an aunt and uncle she barely knew; then of finding that her relatives and their neighbors were about the dullest people who ever walked the face of the earth.
The ocean, rocks, and cool sea breeze are what awaited me every July at our old summer house in Maine. The living room, dining room and two bedrooms upstairs had the most beautiful view in the whole house. It was of the glistening teal ocean and huge rocks on which one could climb. They were all along the seaside, like a barrier separating the water and land.
I woke up as a small gap of light beamed into my eyes from a hole in the curtain. I opened my bedroom window to see what kind of a day it was. The sun was radiating on my face, but the only thing I could feel was the heat. There was not even the slightest breeze in the air; it gave me a strange feeling. My house is near the ocean, so I was accustomed to early morning breezes.
“Alissa Escarce . . . Alissa Escarce," I muttered to myself, my finger moving slowly down the long list of names taped to the scratched wall. "Eugenie Cha . . . Jennifer Li . . . here we go, Alissa Escarce," I whispered, half glowing with pride, half shaking with nervousness.
"What a lovely place for a summer vacation," sighed my twelve-year-old cousin Allison, as we stood on the bluffs of the Maine coast.
I nodded as my eyes swept over the glass-like water in the bay with numerous islands scattered beyond it. My gaze rested on the lighthouse erected on the edge of a steep rocky cliff connected to the mainland.
As I sipped the sherberty punch, I gazed about the Fitzpatricks' sprawling farm for a comfortable spot to sit. It was the Fourth of July, and summer heat waves rippled across the cow pastures behind the barns. The Fitzpatricks, our neighbors, were giving a party. I could see my older brother Wesley trying to climb up the knotted rope that hung from a newly constructed tree house.
My Burton had a taste for dramatics. Her daily schedule was crammed full of acting lessons, ballet, and auditions. Her room overflowed with masks, stage makeup, and old playbills. Every day after school she would walk over to the acting studio where she took musical theater classes. Often, she would come home with amazing news about her budding career.
Swissh! Ed was playing basketball on the slab, a super-smooth playground on the campus of Country Day, his school. In the coolness of the evening the asphalt felt oddly warm beneath Ed's bare feet. He was playing with his best friend Dave, and he had just scored a two-pointer while Dave was blocking him.
"In your eye!" Ed screamed.