Sketching Tammy
Art class. The comforting scent of paints and crayons greeted me as I made my way into the room. As if by magic all of my problems seemed to slip away, like I was losing...
Stories
Original fiction by young writers ages 8-13
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Art class. The comforting scent of paints and crayons greeted me as I made my way into the room. As if by magic all of my problems seemed to slip away, like I was losing many heavy weights that were tied to my heart. For two hours, those long-awaited two hours on Friday afternoons, I could be as free as an eagle and let my imagination soar.
It has been three years since she, my one and only best friend, left, and I am dying to see her. She had lived down the street and I had known her forever. I have vivid memories of her room: clothes strewn all over, hanging on chairs, underneath her bed, and piled on her desk. Play horses with broken legs and unruly manes were stationed in miniature barns, on her dresser, and on her comforter.
"Scruffy! Where are you?" I screamed at the top of my lungs. "Where could he be?" I asked in dismay. I turned around to make my way to Hickory Hill where I thought Scruffy might be lurking. Just then I heard a faint bark and in the next moment a little furry husky had tumbled into my arms. "There you are, I've been looking everywhere for you. Well, you're here now and that is all that matters.
The day was hot and humid, one of those lazy days that always found themselves in a place like Marrisvine. Bare legs hanging off the creaky, wooden porch, head pancaked between her hands, Athena, half in a doze, was watching the dying grass stir in the seldom stirs of wind. The classic sign of boredom. That is all the town held for her.
Retsina flipped her long, black hair behind her. She looked around at the empty, quiet bunker she lived in. Once it was filled with the joyous shouts of girls, but now only deafening silence reigned, echoing off the stone walls. Girls here on Matia 3 were expected to raise large families, but ten years ago, one woman had changed all that.
"Man, I can't wait until I get out of here, and I can live with a real family," John said for the millionth time to his best friend in the orphanage, Tom.
"Yeah, but I'll sure miss you when you're gone," Tom answered while wolfing down some cornbread at dinner.
John and Tom had lived in Saint Vincent's Orphanage for as long as he could remember.
It was getting dark. Zoe lay on the hammock on the front porch eating an ice-cream sundae. She looked out at the golden lake thoughtfully. The porch door slammed. Zoe scooted over for her twin brother, Hunter.
"Thinkin'?"
Zoe nodded. She slurped a chocolate drip off the side of the tall glass. Hunter carefully watched Zoe's gaze drop toward the other white-picket-fence houses ringing the lake.
Peter Bradbury stepped outside into the ten-degrees-below-zero Canadian air. The winter would get much colder. The bundled-up, seventeen-year-old boy was not cold. He had grown up in this weather. He was tall, lean, dirty, unshaven, strong, and tough. He had been born in the woods. With much difficulty, he trudged through the three-foot-deep snow over to a rack that his snowshoes were on.
I am writing this story to tell you about a little orphan boy. His name was Jack and he was my foster brother for two years.
When Jack first came to live at our house, he was small. He carried his belongings in a laundry basket and wore jeans with holes in them. He had a scraggly mushroom haircut. When Jack was nervous and scared, he stuttered. He also was confused.
When I look back now, eighteen months later, at our horrendous car crash, it seems so far away, so surreal. But the harsh reminders are suddenly there. My older brother's scars, jagged lines across his muscled chest and stomach, and also running down his spine. Still my hero, so brave in his suffering, never a word of complaint during his long healing process.