Shadow
For a few days in mid-September, the temperature seems perfect. It’s not boiling hot, but it hasn’t reached what you would call freezing cold yet. It’s a little chilly, but that makes you feel fresh...
Stories
Original fiction by young writers ages 8-13
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For a few days in mid-September, the temperature seems perfect. It’s not boiling hot, but it hasn’t reached what you would call freezing cold yet. It’s a little chilly, but that makes you feel fresh and wide awake, and the wind isn’t horribly wild and hasn’t started biting at your face.
It was one of those days, and so my dad and I drove down to the local woods to go for a walk.
Today was the big day. I was afraid it would go horribly wrong. I woke up today with that feeling you always get before something big. I ate breakfast in a hurried fashion. I always ate a slow and controlled breakfast. Today was different. Today was the day of the concert. I had eggs and bacon today. That was our family’s traditional Friday breakfast.
Every day was a holiday, or so it seemed. You didn’t need decorated trees, fireworks, cakes and candles, or paper hats to celebrate special days, Marty thought. Marty loved her lazy Sunday mornings perched on a high stool in her galley kitchen, eating stacks of buckwheat pancakes dripping in amber syrup, lovingly cooked just the way she liked ’em, crispy brown on the outside and fluffy golden ...
Pearly white crystals flutter gently around the buildings and houses, covering the town in a delicate sheet of snow. The soothing silvery color of the snowflakes contrasts beautifully with the somber blues and greens of the busy streets and malls. Pedestrians scramble across the streets in bustling pods to grab last-minute Christmas presents.
We’re eating Chinese tonight. Dark plastic bowls filled with rice and vegetables, egg rolls in little cardboard boxes, even the fortune cookies with the lottery numbers on the back of the paper. This is a real treat. Mom doesn’t care for Chinese food, but it’s Dad’s favorite, so tonight she’s putting up with it. In case you hadn’t guessed, I kind of like it, too.
Rain, to Gracie, had always seemed like the tears of hope. Instead of closing all the windows and playing board games, she walks half a mile to the nearest park. Running away from home was simple now. She had gotten used to it. Most of it was to the park, and most of it was in the rain. The two things just clicked.
When Gracie arrived at the park, it was almost always empty.
On the dark wood table, a plain plate lay inches away from Abigail. Her blond hair flounced around her shoulders. Her light blue dress with darker flowers brought out the bright blue in her eyes, which contrasted strangely with the rich brown of Hope’s. Hope, on the other side of the room, was sweeping the grimy floor with a homemade broom of stiff bristles.
Frigid wind whips through my long brown hair and bites me with cold teeth. It carries the strong smell of the sea in it, which stings my nose. Gray, salty water is churned into waves by the gale and sprinkles my chilly bare feet that are sinking into the wet sand. A seagull struggles to fly to its nest.
Our car trundled along a dusty gravel road one day in the middle of July. I stared out the window at the clouds of dry dirt that billowed from beneath our tires, picturing what our car must look like from the outside. Aside from the layer of dust covering it, our big red Subaru looked completely normal.
Mara was entranced. The shop blurred before her in a tribute of glory to the necklace. Draped carelessly over a slender black velour cone, its gold, glassy pendant gem glittered as if with dew. It hung on a short golden chain. Mara could tell, without even trying it on, that it would nestle snugly in the hollow of her throat with a cool, fluid ease.