In fifth grade, I entered an essay contest entitled, “A Book That Changed Me.” In it you were supposed to write an essay about a story that had truly affected your life - and I immediately knew that it would be unbearably difficult to pick. But, after a short time of agonizing decisions, I had decided on a beautiful book named Chasing Vermeer, by Blue Balliett. This novel is one of the few realistic fiction books that I would read - and it is absolutely amazing,, combining art, mystery, language, mathematics, and literature and written in heart-achingly, word-devouring prose. I scribbled away, attempting to put everything that I had ever felt about Chasing Vermeer into a short essay - and a wonderful essay, since the winner would be able to read theirs aloud at the National Book Awards. My fifth-grade self was satisfied with my final product, and I sent it away to the organization running the contest with bated breath - that stayed bated for about two months. Finally, we received news - I was not a winner, or in second or third place, or even an honorable mention. My essay had vanished into the abyss wherever unpicked-anything goes, never to be seen or mentioned again. I remember the taste of bitter disappointment in my mouth, my anger and shame at not having been picked for such a thrilling opportunity - and then it was over. I supposed that something had been wrong with the essay, or whoever judged it had thought so, but there was no reason to do anything with it again. And so the rest of the year slipped by in laughter and tears and fear and life, until it was summer, and then school was about to begin again - and I never thought about my little essay anymore. I had acquiesced it- it didn’t really matter. Or so I thought.
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This is a piece of fiction
She will come back…..she has to come back. Though the girls were supposed to be working, Azra’s deep, dark- chocolate eyes were fixed on the empty chair, the only one without an owner, towards the far corner of the room. She has to…. “Azra? Are you working? Talk to Syeda and Nasim - this is a group project.” She looked up, her beige hijab rustling, to see her teacher staring right at her. Gulping, she nodded, and turned towards the two other girls at their trio of desks, but they appeared not to have heard the teacher, and continued chatting to one another. Azra sighed. Syeda and Nasim were not really mean - not outright - but they had never talked to her either. All of her classmates were that way. To them, Azra was simply another girl in a headscarf, one of the few lucky enough to attend school in Swat Valley, Pakistan - but a girl who’s near-complete silence made her easy to ignore. Since her family moved to Swat Valley, two years ago, Azra had barely spoken, even to her own family. If her brother, Kiran, had been there, it would have been different -but his death in the Taliban’s attack on their previous home on the Pakistan-Afghanistan border were the reason that they had fled in the first place. No one in Azra’s family minded her silence - all of them grieved Kiran, but in many different ways. Still, though she knew she was incredibly lucky to be in school and safe at the same time, she couldn’t help feeling lonely. There was only one classmate who had ever talked to Azra….and now she might never come back. I packed my backpack, preparing myself for the pouring rain. I had forgotten my umbrella, as usual, and was dreading the thought of the cold water being dumped from the clouds dripping into my boots and soaking through my socks. I stopped at my locker and picked up my French homework before I walked to the front door and stepped into the cold.
I was soaked within seconds. It dripped down my boots and soaked through my socks, just as I expected it to. I began walking but was soon stopped by the sound of someone calling my name. I looked around and found Dexter walking towards me. He was a boy in my grade and seemed really shy. I had never talked to him much before. I knew he was kinda nerdy like me, but I didn’t think he had many friends. “Here,” he said. He quickly handed me a red umbrella, big enough for two to fit under. His glasses were black and they made his green eyes sparkle in the rain. “I don’t need it.” He stepped out from underneath the umbrella and his brown hair started to plaster to his head, flopping down and losing life. “Thanks for the offer,” I said, “but you can keep your umbrella. You’ll be soaked in seconds.” When I was shot, it was very bad I was sent to a hospital in the U.K. because of what I needed. Now i’m treated and i’m well now, but nothing feels the same not after what happened to me. When I was still in the hospital and doing ok, I liked to read when I could. This wasn’t often but it did happen. I remember sitting there with my white and pink teddy bear that my family had bought me, next to all my thank you cards reading. It was great to finally do something I liked, and know I would be ok. I also knew I was 14 and most people 14 don’t always have a teddy bear but this one would always be with me. I named it Malalai after me and strong pakistani girl warrior. who inspired me. Even now I still have my teddy bear Malalai with me. I also know I will be 40 and still have this bear. It gives me a sense of comfort when I see it. It helped me get through rough times so it’s so important to me. During this times there were three things that made me feel most happy, and good; my family, books, and my teddy bear Malalai. So this moment was one of the best I had in the hospital reading a book with my teddy bear Malalai and thank you cards next to me. I will never forget this moment or anything through such a rough path I went through. I had one card that stood up it was my favorite, it was from my family. I was a soft lavender with flowers and it said “Get Well Soon”. It was so pretty and of course since it was from my family it felt like they were always with me. I held my teddy bear close by my side and I was so into the book, when they took a picture of me I didn’t notice. Of course until they told me. My parents visited every day and my brothers visited mostly everyday. As I said I was so into the book, I would have never stopped but my family, my brothers too had came to visit me. So I stopped to enjoy them. I will never forget this day, my thank you card, or my teddy bear Malalai. Infact Malalai has been with me during this whole entire story and my card is on my table.
“Commander!!” the cry rang out into the night. Jean slid over to the soldiers on the North side of the civilian hospital building they were protecting.
“Keep your voice down!” she hissed. “What is it?” One of the men, the one who had yelled out, silently pointed down steep slope of the incline that the hospital rested on. Jean squinted through the darkness and saw flickers of movement, flashes of light, just the faintest whisper of voices drifting upward on the night air. And she saw the weapons. The rifles would have made most people’s heart wrench with fear, but to Jean Comlish, a commander of the Navy in the Afghan War, weapons, blood, and death were nothing new. She had first arrived as part of the Navy Nurse Corps, and during her first year pleaded to the heavens every night to let her go home, somehow, before she went mad from all of the death and destruction - all the soldiers that she hadn’t been able to keep alive. But, little by little, as she advanced in ranking, her heart had hardened - enough that now, she felt only a small flutter of worry as she gazed down at the darkening hillside. A knock wakes me up from my nap. I slowly make my way toward the door. Opening it, I am surprised to see a group of school-age-kids standing outside, carrying tape recorders, notebooks, and writing utensils.
“Good morning ma'am.” says the one in front, a young male with glasses and curly, deep red hair. “We were wondering if we could interview you for a school report?” “Be my guest,” I respond, cautiously. “Although how I can help you, I have no idea. Please, come in.” Once I have them all seated, I ask, “What is your report on?” “We have to pick an event from the Cold War and do a research project on it,” starts a girl with thick, waist length shiny black hair and pale skin. “My mom told us you worked for the government during the Cuban Missile Crisis, so we decided to choose that. We were hoping to ask you about what happened, to get some first hand experience to enhance our project,” adds a boy with messy, pale gold hair that seems to eternally be in his eyes. I am shocked that they thought of interviewing someone to get a first hand account. I smile. Maybe all of today’s kids haven’t been hopelessly lost to video games. “At the time of the Cuban Missile Crisis, I was the Secretary of State in President John Fitzgerald Kennedy's cabinet. Dean Rusk had gone into temporary retirement three months before due to a boating accident. The public hadn’t been notified of the change in who was holding the position because Rusk was expected to be back before Kennedy’s term was over.” I looked at the group to see the untidy haired boy taking notes and the first girl holding what appears to be a tape recorder. I frown for a moment, wishing that they had asked for my permission to record this interview, but I decide not to mention it. Instead, I lose myself in memories. The lights outside shimmer, in the dark as everyone sleeps awaiting for the next day. When there will be presents lined under the Christmas trees. When wrapping paper and bags will be thrown across the floor. When they will have a special breakfast and have an absolute wonderful day. Everyone will be joyful in one way or another. The air will smell like pine and cookies because of the Christmas trees and the cookies being baked. Seeing family and having a great feast for dinner and cookies for dessert. Watching movies at night with hot cocoa in your lap. What a wonderful day Christmas is, but when the day's over, we go back to sleep, and the next day isn't special like Christmas.
Enya walked through the broken down town. Kids were laughing and parents talking about the latest show or work. She walked past the bright bakery and smelled the wondrous things she once had as a child. Enya wondered what the harm was in having some on this cold, snowy day that pierced even the thickest of coats.
She walked in to find it hadn’t changed a bit since she was a child. There was still a big glass case with all the delicious pastries and drinks that made your insides all warm. She bought a cherry filled pastry fresh from the oven and took it with her hopes high. She bit into it and felt the warm sweet insides seep into her tastebuds and down her throat. Enya slowly finished it, wanting to savor every bite. Wishing it would never end, she refused to admit later that she had bought two more and a full mug of hot chocolate. She went back through the streets to find that people had gone back into their homes for dinner and the noises outside had subsided. Enya saw a snowman in someone’s yard with a hat and gloves. She remembered doing that and wished she could once more. Who’s stopping me? she asked herself as she picked up some snow and proceed to make the original snowman a friend, someone to give it warmth in it’s heart. Let’s go through all the introductory remarks rather quickly. Yes it has been a while... My how you’ve grown since your high school English class.... Beatrice.... “Much Ado About Nothing” ... Of course I don’t speak in old English all the time... No, no one understands Shakespeare that well... the wedding is called off... I’m fine... No really... how are you doing... that’s just great... he/she/they are adorable...
Great. Now that that is all out of the way, we can get down to business. You may, depending on the quality of your required education, remember a couple things about me. I am the witty, truth telling girl who calls it like it is. I am, now that enough time has passed and I have a word to call it, one of the first feminists. If it sounds like I am bragging, it is because I am. I am proud to belong to a group of people who, even if they were not exactly named when I was being depicted on stage, have fought hard to get women rights. I do not know a lot of things. Weather or not it was Shakespeare who wrote his plays is as much a mystery to me as it is to you. I have no idea why some people pour milk before pouring their cereal. I don’t know what a tweet is, and I most certainly do not know what a hashtag is. Those were not the only reasons I was confused, however, after being confronted with #womenagainstfeminism. I walk through my house looking at pictures of old friends. Today is Veterans Day, a whole day celebrating my sisters and brothers of war. I got much mail today, mostly thank you notes and letters from my friends and family.
All day, I have been wandering this house fit for a queen, thinking of those days- the days when the guns fired over head and the flames roared on roof tops. It was scary, I’ll admit, but I also must admit that I miss it. I wish I was back on the field, saving others and doing what is right. Sadly, I also know that it is right that I stay here in my old age, just trying to remember some days and trying to forget the rest. Soon, I come across a large box full of journals and pictures from my days in the army. I come across my Sergeant badge and hang it on the wall with my other honors and medals. I walk back to the box and pick up one of my notebooks. I open to a random page, and find it to be my best and my worst memory. It was 2009 during the Iraq War. We were sleeping soundly with many look outs. As I woke, I heard shouts and commands. I looked around and saw an enemy dropping a bomb over some houses. The ground shook like an earthquake and flames spurted. The noise was enough to make me go deaf, but I could still hear the shouts and screams. |
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