Anica
I felt like my heart had been hit by a semi truck. I stared at my parents in stunned silence. They sat across from me; their anxious faces looked at me in hesitant anticipation. "What?"...
Stories
Original fiction by young writers ages 8-13
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I felt like my heart had been hit by a semi truck. I stared at my parents in stunned silence. They sat across from me; their anxious faces looked at me in hesitant anticipation.
"What?" I choked out. My throat was tight and my stomach was in knots.
"You can't do that!" I said, tears beginning to fill my eyes. My dad leaned forward in his armchair and sympathetically put his hand on my knee.
"Your mother? Gone?" Lydia's father asked.
Lydia twisted her fingers around the edge of her battered suitcase and nodded. She didn't open her mouth for fear she would say something she would regret.
"Fever, Mr. Wainscot. She had it for months," Sister Engels murmured, standing behind the eleven-year-old.
"Months? Why wasn't I informed?"
Sister Engels put a wrinkled hand on Lydia's shoulder.
I let my hand trail in the cool, clear water of the New Mexican mountain stream. It trickles like liquid crystal through my fingers, sending shivers up my back. Despite the pulsing warmth of the glowing July sun, the water has a sharp nip. I shift my position on the bank of the stream, letting my toes dip in the water. Lightly, I press one toe against a rock, rubbing the thick, moist moss.
The pleasing aroma of freshly cut grass wafts through my nostrils as I step out onto the rectangular field, surrounded by the sounds of night with only the glowing field lights to accompany me. My toe kicks forward the round orb; its black and white checkers become blurred as the ball rolls dizzyingly towards the goal. That white frame is like a beacon to me . . .
The streets echo with Farsi, reverberate with the sounds of decaying cars wallowing down the road, ring in the calls of vendors. In the old parts of the city, calls to prayer drift down the streets. The sun is beginning to set, flushing the white high-rise buildings lining Tehran's skyline with pinks and oranges. And beyond the city . . . well, the city never ends.
A large gray hippo waded in the clear, cool Nile River. His name was Akitomen. Akitomen's wife, Tawret, glided alongside him. The couple both watched their children, Khufem and Maketuman. The kids played happily in the papyrus reeds, Tawret and Akitomen talked while keeping an eye on the kids. Tawret had always been a wonderful hippo mother. Loving, yet stern.
I looked down at my watch; it was already five past six. Where are they? It was starting to annoy me that they were late again. The plan was that we would meet at the bench under the third streetlight at exactly six o'clock to go swimming. The ocean was at low tide at exactly six so every minute that ticked by, the tide came in and the waves became rougher and rougher.
"Will you look at that?" I said, tugging on Mom's sleeve and pointing down from the balcony at the lady walking in through the gate, being helped by Jose Luiz and his siblings. "If ever there was a typical American tourist! She must have at least eight suitcases. Jose Luiz is too kind. She should have to carry her own things if she's going to bring all of that stuff. That is just ridiculous!
I gaze out across the valley from my perch on the cold, gray cliff. I watch a band of knights ride toward me, scarlet flags embossed with white lions flying defiantly in the light breeze. They are followed by a crowd of villagers eager to view my slaying.
The feather fluttered to the ground. I looked about me, as if affirming that no one would deprive me of this precious trinket. A red-breasted robin broke out in song. I closed my eyes and breathed in the lightly fragrant aroma of its music.
Music. One of the few things in life that can't be described in words.