As I lay still on my bed with more than four blankets piled on my me, I dream silently of ?. I decide I never want to awake not from this dream. It’s so peaceful, calm, and something to enjoy. I don’t want to wake up by my stupid alarm and go to school. I’d rather sleep and sleep and sleep. But I can’t for long because that’s when all the sudden randomly, while i’m still in my dream, I hear my alarm jumping up and down awaking me. Snapping me back to reality. I’m just to far from it so instead of getting up, I slam it pressing the snooze button. Five minutes later I hear again my stupid alarm waking me, taking me out of my dream. So again I slam snooze, this time when I lay back down i’m tired, needing more sleep. I just can’t fall asleep though. My dream is lost in my mind, it’s gone forever. So I sit up dreading the day. Then I think of makes the whole situation worse. It’s Monday.
0 Comments
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 days over, we go back to sleep and the next day isn't special like Christmas.
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.
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. “CRACK”
a sound that shows warning the drizzle slowly transforms into a deep pour “plip plop drip drop” says the rain in the beauty of the storm hair wet feet set in the beauty of the storm After a moment of solitary glory I start running along the road hair wet feet set in the beauty of the storm I get to my home not worrying or caring about my sopping clothes hair wet feet set in the beauty of the storm I peer out my window and the storm’s spirit lifts me up- I like the rain I hear the wind playing it’s wonder song I see the thunder and lightning’s deep indigos and blues hair wet feet set in the beauty of the storm. 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.” |
Archives
February 2023
Categories |