My Kitty Mango
It was a drizzly, rainy day. There were hardly any people walking on the street. My sister was in her room, singing a pre-school song. My mom huddled in her bed, reading a book. My...
Stories
Original fiction by young writers ages 8-13
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It was a drizzly, rainy day. There were hardly any people walking on the street. My sister was in her room, singing a pre-school song. My mom huddled in her bed, reading a book. My cat Baboo was, of course, sleeping. My dad was on the couch, doing something with his iPad. And I was on the dining room chair, feeling bored.
I wondered where my other fat cat Mango was. I looked everywhere.
There’s a funny thing about love. Love can twist you and tie you in a knot. Love can make your heart burst and your eyes fill with tears, and love can make you so jubilant even when there’s a tornado outside. Love can bring you together and tear you apart. Love did all of these to me when my dog Breeze came along. I loved Breeze. He was my dog and we were inseparable.
I wake up to the sound of my little brother, Carson, screaming. I plug my ears with my pillow, trying to block out the noise, but it doesn’t help.
“No, Daddy, no!” Carson laughs. Laughs. That’s something I’d sure like to do.
You see, ever since Carson was born, my parents really haven’t paid attention to me.
We always loved going to that old house on the hill. Everyone said it was haunted, but we never listened. Michael, Emma, and me, Summer.
Why did we always go there? I guess we were interested. We didn’t believe in ghosts. Not then. Now we know better. But even more than that, we were attracted to the house. That old wreck of a building, with shutters hanging loose and boards half ripped off.
“So I’m doing my science project on contraptions or robots,” Jess said smoothly. She was talking to Bailey, who was on the other end of the phone.
“Yeah. Can I do it with you?”
Jess stopped. Uh-oh, she thought, better tell her now.
“Bailey, I’m really sorry, but… I totally forgot to ask you, and I’ve already chosen my teammates, Cassidy and Stewart. Can I make it up to you?
INTRODUCTION
The important people in my story are my grandparents. They have greatly impacted my life. My grandfather and I were very close and he taught me many things. He loved writing, music, and trains, the same as I do. He died November 8, 2011, on my brother’s birthday. One of the last times I spent with him was when we went to a train station. That place is very important to me.
I stood in my backyard, wearing the clothes that I hid from my mama. A T-shirt and jeans, with a baseball cap atop my head. Boy, would Mama scream if she saw me wearing this. But I hate itchy blouses, skirts that are impossible to run in, and dresses that are like both of those combined.
It was an icy cold morning. I struggled to wake from the blissful sleep I had enjoyed all night. I stretched luxuriously and half smiled, but then, glancing at my clock, I abruptly jumped up into the frigid air our clumsy black woodstove was desperately trying to warm.
“Oh...” I moaned, suddenly remembering it was Saturday. Oh, well, I was already up.
The finest time to go fishing is at dusk. A hazy fog is settling over the lake, and the sun sits perched just above the crown of the tree line, casting a multitude of soft colors. I prepare myself, sliding slowly into the canoe, balancing myself and making sure not to fall into the crisp dusk waters. Row after row, my paddle breaks the water’s surface and pushes me along.
It was late October on the verge of November and the sky had lost all of its brightness, taking on the stark, ink-black tone of night. On and on it stretched, broken only by occasional clusters of stars. It was cold, too. A cold that seeped all the way to the bone, turned exposed skin to marble.