Silence Is Golden
Every day, when I arrive home, I step off the bus after chatting loudly with my friends. The bus engine roars, and the passengers’ voices swell, and then the wheels begin to turn. And I...
Stories
Original fiction by young writers ages 8-13
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Every day, when I arrive home, I step off the bus after chatting loudly with my friends. The bus engine roars, and the passengers’ voices swell, and then the wheels begin to turn. And I watch over my shoulder as I walk up the drive. The bus shrinks in size as it trundles down the tree-lined street.
One side of my heart is for myself and the other half is what other people see. Nestled deep in that half of my heart for me is a large black stain. That is where deaths have landed. Grandpa; Grandma; Mrs. Brown, the mother of my fifth-grade friend Tiana; and many others sit there. And Marie.
When I was eight years old, I took a visit to my ancestors’ home, green Ireland.
Brrriing!! The bell announced that school was out. Kids poured out from different classes and the slams of lockers could be heard. While the rest of the kids ran out the door and into the winter air, Odette Barry walked patiently to the outside of the school. She was in no rush to arrive home to her demanding grandmother who insisted on being read her favorite childhood books.
Raindrops fell from the dark velvety sky, dropping delicately onto the world below. A few clouds drifted through in the gloom, covering the moon and few stars that had escaped the light of the city that flourished down the river.
Five fruit bats glided through the air, each trying to find enough food for themselves before the rain started to pour down.
Ellie leaped from the incubator warmness of her covers to get ready for the day that lay ahead. The sun was rising and the day was still in its infancy, offering a new beginning, and new challenges. After spending some time in her closet looking for just the right combination of shirt, pants and boots, she stole one last glance at herself in her dresser mirror.
As the boy dropped down from the icy ski lift and slid down the slope, you could already see the adrenaline pulsing through him like an aura of energy. This would be his last run of the year, and he knew it would be spectacular. As he glided over the snow on his board, he already knew which run he was going to do. With all of the possible choices, his mind was set on one run.
I sat alone in the dark, feeling the boat rock from side to side. The hollow sounds the boat made as the waves hit it told me how deep the water was beneath us.
“Creaak, Creaak.”
What was that noise?
“It’s nothing,” I told myself. “It’s nothing.”
But it is something: the sound of a woman, starving in the hills, begging by the road for a coffin for her dead child.
A furious gust of wind howled down the moonlit lane, sending a cascade of freshly fallen snowflakes tumbling from the treetops, up and over the rooftops, whirling around the lampposts, before finally slamming into the row of houses that lined either side of the street.
There stood Grandpa Wilson, his old yet strong form slightly hunched over, while his gaze followed our car as we pulled up to the house. The light drizzle dripped off the old tweed cap he liked to wear. As I clambered out of the car, a grin appeared on his face and he opened his arms to hug me. As I wrapped my arms around him, I could feel his red woolen sweater scratching my skin.
“In a few minutes, we will be landing at Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport in Mumbai. Please fasten your seat belts. Thank you for flying Air India and hope you have a wonderful stay in Mumbai,” the pilot’s voice echoed. As the plane descended under the clouds, I looked out of the window and got my first glimpse of Mumbai.