Miracle
A large hand wiped the tears from Tom's small red eyes. "Don't worry, son," he smiled, "I swear we'll come back." Tom hoped so, with all of his eight-year-old heart. But it still hurt so...
Stories
Original fiction by young writers ages 8-13
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A large hand wiped the tears from Tom's small red eyes. "Don't worry, son," he smiled, "I swear we'll come back." Tom hoped so, with all of his eight-year-old heart. But it still hurt so much to watch his father and brother go off to war. Even though President Lincoln needed soldiers, Tom still puzzled over why it had to be his family.
"Why not John or Mary's?
A large hand wiped the tears from Tom's small red eyes. "Don't worry, son," he smiled, "I swear we'll come back." Tom hoped so, with all of his eight-year-old heart. But it still hurt so much to watch his father and brother go off to war. Even though President Lincoln needed soldiers, Tom still puzzled over why it had to be his family.
"Why not John or Mary's?
I remember the days before Ms. Brown. That was all before everything, with the snow, the stories, and the grove on Grady Hill. Those were the times when school was the hardest, and the days stretched on like counting down the minutes till New Year's. But as I flip through film reels reading things like "Mattie's First Birthday-1945" and "Christmas—1952" those times seem like just yesterday.
Mae Trillian has always lived a fairly simple life. Nothing brought her more pleasure than perfect, small simplicities—a tall glass of cold, crystalline water full of chinking ice cubes, the noise of a lead pencil as it scratched the surface of a crisp sheet of paper.
We were lying in a circle, curled up on a den of sleeping bags, pillows and blankets. Popcorn and candy wrappers were scattered all around, remnants of that night's feeding fest, while we had, oblivious to all else, watched our movie selection, comprised mostly of films featuring Orlando Bloom.
“It's going to be cold," laughed Riley. "I'm warning you, when I took the swim test, I almost froze. They had to defrost me."
"Thank you for sharing that wonderful piece of moral support with me," I snapped. Riley had been coming to Camp Walton's Grizzly Lodge for seven years now, since she was five. It was my first year.
Loud, excited barking came from the front yard. He must be home, I thought. I opened the front door and walked outside. I took in the group at a glance.
"Where are Swiftfoot and Mak?" I asked, suddenly afraid.
"It's no matter," he said dismissively, and continued to lead the dogs to their kennels around the back of the house.
"Dad?" I called, my voice rising.
He didn't stop.
They came one day, their green army trucks all in one winding line, rumbling down the nearby road. I'd heard the noise, running to the balcony to look across the familiar swaying fields of sugar cane in our family's plantation, palm fronds bowing gently to the humid breeze. Lazy mosquitoes flicked in and out of the courtyards of the large house, a solid white against the tropical background.
“Pomegranate, apple, or bunch of grapes?" Mom asked, just asking out of sheer politeness, as she knew what the answer would be.
"Pomegranate, please," her three daughters said in unison. Mrs. Loft sliced the brilliant red fruit in quarters, passed each girl a quarter and took the remainder of the sphere for herself.
Michael’s eyes, the biggest, bluest eyes imaginable, glazed over with absolute ecstasy as he beheld the sand-crusted sea treasure sprawling in his hand. The creature squirming on the toddler's pink palm writhed and stretched, its legs curling as they reached towards the weak, cloud-strewn blue sky—slowly, painfully—until its motions became too much, and it lay still, defeated.