Limitations
PROLOGUE [dropcap]I[/dropcap] am a guardian angel. I am retelling one of my missions to earth long ago. It was my first mission; I was proud of my abilities. And to go to a foreign...
Stories
Original fiction by young writers ages 8-13
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PROLOGUE
I am a guardian angel. I am retelling one of my missions to earth long ago. It was my first mission; I was proud of my abilities. And to go to a foreign country made me excited.
* * *
The radiant noon sun shone brightly as the cool breeze ruffled the palm branches near the Mekong in Cambodia.
It was the first day at my new school. I was excited and nervous. I am the first in my family ever to go to a Gymnasium (a German secondary school for grades 5 through 13, preparing for university entrance). Frau Heintz, the homeroom teacher for class 5b, was calling the roll. "Andreas Ludowsky?"
"Here!" a thin boy with thick curly hair whom I didn't know answered.
His name began with an L.
“Mother, don't," I shrieked.
Mother looked at me and opened her mouth threateningly. "Rebecca, you'll wake everybody up!"
"I like this side," I said quickly, stroking the dark yellow cotton.
"Yes, but you know that your grandmother made that quilt and when she arrives, she'll want to see the patchwork side up. Say you had quilted a beautiful patchwork and then backed it with a solid color.
This is a story about my great-grandfather's dog. This story takes place in Mexico in the town of Tampico, where my great-grandfather, Rosalino Dominguez, had been trying to get land for poor people, but that was against the government's laws.
My grandmother told me, "The only time he had ever cried was when he had to leave his dog." The dog's name was Pinto, and in Spanish that means spotted.
I can still remember the day I met my best friend. I rode my bike past her house a few days after she had moved in. The afternoon air was clear and crisp, and a few fluffy white clouds danced over my head in the breeze. There had been a storm that morning, so the essence of rain swept softly over my skin, and stray drops of water hung from the trees.
I noticed her horse right away.
Stroke. Stroke. Breathe left. Straight legs, follow through with the arms. These are usually my thoughts while swimming the hundred-meter freestyle. For those of you who don't know, that's two laps. I can do it in about a minute and twenty seconds, sometimes more, sometimes less. Oh, and my name is Sophia, been swimming for five years in that very pool, been on the team for three years.
I can remember so clearly the day when my troubles began. I was thirteen years old, and it was the spring of 1665. It was unnaturally warm for Madrid, but I loved the sun. I was sitting outside near the garden, reading a wonderful book. In our flower beds, a bright array of color burst forth. Tulips, crocuses and irises all stretched their delicate petals toward the sun.
Do you think that it's possible to love someone you have never met? Is it possible to love someone who lived and died before you were even born? Cécile Cosqueric, a sixteen-year-old girl living in Paris, France in 1919 is whom I'm talking about. I believe her life was meant to touch mine. I am a twelve-year-old American girl, living in Atlanta, Georgia in the year 2002.
Whenever I see Joanne, I always notice the red scar on her beautiful long legs. Although it was just a small scar, it seemed so noticeable on her feminine and beautiful legs. Joanne is the prettiest girl in my class. She has deep chestnut hair that she can flick about her face and shining crystal eyes glittering behind her little spectacles. We had been the best of friends, until one day . . .
I was playing with them, actually playing with them. They were just like Dad's rug, but my size, and alive! I cuddled in their soft black fur. Their padded leather paws threw me and I fell, laughing. We rolled into each other and onto each other. And their big round eyes looked at me, comfortingly. They felt the same way towards me as I felt towards them.