Iristerra
At the very western tip of the world lies a land of clear waters and cold winters, where wild storms turn the sky and sea to dark gray, and white-sailed fishing boats once glided like...
Stories
Original fiction by young writers ages 8-13
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At the very western tip of the world lies a land of clear waters and cold winters, where wild storms turn the sky and sea to dark gray, and white-sailed fishing boats once glided like swans over white-crested waves.
During one particularly fearsome storm, where thunder crashed and lightning lit up the sky for miles, a group of travelers huddled in an inn.
Today I go into candy shops and see little bottles of liquid Warhead sour substances and Warhead sour spray. But I can never find what I am really looking for: sour, sweat-producing, face-pinching, tongue-twisting, and eye-watering, irresistible, Warhead sucking candies.
“They're crazy!" shouted my father, bursting through the door and coming in for dinner. Mother, careworn and ever patient, calmly laid the bowls for supper.
"Now, Jim," she said practically, filling our bowls with warm soup. That was what she always said when Father got excited.
"I mean it Mabel!" he said, lifting his arms into the air.
Someone’s trust can take years to gain, but only seconds to lose. Revving the motor of my best friend's dirt bike always gave me a thrill. Yet, nothing could compare to the feeling of zooming down the back roads by my beach house on a warm, summer day. As I switched gears from first to second, I glanced at an old woman giving me a cryptic stare.
Shannon lifted her head and howled into the empty black sky. It was a sad, mournful song, shattering the cold silence.
Slowly the old wolf dipped her muzzle to her toes in a sort of bow. Her graying white coat bristled slightly in the chilly breeze. Snow surrounded her, looking like a big, beautiful quilt of cotton. Only her soft paw prints disturbed it.
She howled again.
The latch creaks gently as I push open the gate. In front of me, a small potting shed covered with wild roses blocks my view. But I already know by heart what lies beyond. And sure enough, as I walk around the corner of the shed, the sight of a familiar garden greets my eyes.
But it isn't just any garden, it's my garden. Even though anyone can come here, it has always seemed to belong just to me.
The trees shook madly as Carmen Gonzalez made her way to a towering oak named El Grande Oak. She sat down on the roots that had managed to break through the ground. It was the only place she could be away from the chaos of her own home and relax in the quiet of the Marongo woods. Wildflowers and thornbushes covered the ground, while oak and birch trees towered overhead.
Clouds lollygagged across the sky, carried gently by the occasional half-hearted gust of wind. The sun, giving its all for that clear sunny perfect day we'd been hoping for, was defeated by the humid cloud that seemed to swallow up all of Pinckney, Michigan. We were left sticky and disgusted but somehow satisfied with the green grass that had finally replaced the snow.
In the meadow everything was silent and untouched. Maria looked over the vast field and the woods beyond and everything was blanketed in a thick layer of velvety snow. The air was cold and crisp, and stung Maria's throat and chest while she panted slightly from the run to this beautiful place. But she didn't see it as beautiful.
The night air was crisp and cool upon Jake's face. Millions of tiny lights filled the sky like a field of fireflies. Like most nights, Jake sat on the old oak stump in the center of the silent woods. But tonight was special; he could feel it, the tension in the air, the stillness of the seemingly nonexistent wildlife. Something was to happen.