Silent Story
On a cold winter morning
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Issue: <span>January/February 2010</span>
On a cold winter morning
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Jamie looked out her bedroom window and laughed, trying to look past the irregularly shaped snowman, the masterpiece her younger sister and brother had created to adorn their front yard. With only one button eye remaining, and a scarf which had been mistakenly tied around its head instead of its neck, it looked more like a scary pirate in its Halloween costume than any Frosty the Snowman she had ever seen. But she loved it anyway. Oh, how she lived for the holidays. She loved every single one of them. She loved the adventure of ringing doorbells, pretending to be someone else and being rewarded with a bagful of candy on Halloween. She loved the reflection of holiday tree lights making jumbled-up rainbows in the snow, and her favorite holiday of all time was just around the corner.
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The old, worn curtain loomed over the stage. Chairs covered in faded, red velvet cushions were scattered throughout the theatre. A piano that had once been played in the most famous of performances now housed a family of mice. The theatre was falling apart, yet it still contained a certain beauty and elegance. If you listened closely, you could faintly hear the soft, sweet sound of a violin coming from behind the dark curtain. A single candle on the glamorous chandelier that hung from the ceiling of the concert hall flickered to life. The violin was joined by a flute, clarinet, cello, and then a viola. As the instruments grew louder, the chandelier became brighter. Soon, the music of an entire orchestra floated throughout the theatre, and the hall was filled with the soft glow of candles.
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Carved, crooked peaks outline themselves against a
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Today’s the day we’re going to the doctor, and I’m hiding in my tree.
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Every Soul a Star, by Wendy Mass; Little,
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I couldn’t believe it! It couldn’t be true. How could someone you love just be gone? Grandpa seemed invincible to me, and I was shocked when he died suddenly of a heart attack. Just a few short days ago I was sitting next to him in the park. I feel empty now, like a part of me is missing. No more amazing stories, no more silly jokes, no more bird-watching. After all, he was the only grandpa I had. Now all I can do is sit here in my bed and mourn his death.
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I watch them
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The forest was still. The birds had ceased their songs, the squirrels their chattering. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath as the woods prepared for the night. Rabbits had long since crept to their warrens, and mice were scampering to their burrows as owls shook out their wings to go hunt in the night air.
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It was spring in the mountains of Washington—a time of beauty and change. The heaviness of the snow was melting away, flooding the brooks and allowing the pines to stretch their branches once again after a long winter. Leaves were budding on the trees, no longer icy and dead. The whole world, it seemed, was slowly turning colors.
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