A Short Story : A Story Of My Child

After a while, Mama came in. She smiled at me and said, “Good morning,” before she bent over Sarah’s crib.

Trista had always been a normal kid except for her stories. It wasn't that they were disturbing or horrific, they were just unusual. Sometimes they seemed exactly like the kind of thing you'd expect from a kid, but other times, I'd have to look at her and wonder how she came up with such things. It started when she was four, shortly after our dad split, leaving the two of us on our own.

"Ohhh man." She whined to herself as she looked up at the bulkhead and ran her hands through her golden locks. Pulling her own hair in frustration she thought about what sort of punishment she was about to receive for violating a direct order.

When Braeden got to the room door, she stopped, her mother's sleeping form directly in her eyesight. She looked paler than she did the last time Braeden saw her, but she supposed that was to be expected since she was getting worse. Still, it was strange for her to see the woman that was once full of life and joy, confined to a bed.

A Child Called “It”- a truly touching and inspirational story that takes the reader on an emotional rollercoaster. Anger, shock, fear, and heartbreak are just a few of the emotions felt while reading the story of a young boy who fought for his life each and every day. David, the young boy facing unimaginable circumstances, did many things out of the ordinary for a child of his age but necessary in order for survival.

I lay in the hospital bed, staring down at the baby lying in my arms, sleeping soundly as I rock her gently. My hand supports her small head, fragile and delicate, raking my long, slender fingers through her soft hair. Her eyes opened to show a baby blue with unshed tears stared up at me with a soft, sad smile in them. I give a small smile while I get lost in thoughts about how this is going to play out and what I’m going to do.

Hearing the gentle kicks from the wooden cot her sigh was interrupted with the faint sound “mm ma ma ma.” “Did she just say ma ma?”

“I don’t understand” She muttered. Her voice was soft, and I realized it was because she didn’t want to cry.

of anger passing through her tiny frame. " YOU DID THIS" she screamed to the air above. " ARE YOU …....................................."

"WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER!?" Her furious green eyes glared into his nonchalant ones.

As a little kid I was so sneaky, that I really never got into trouble when I was kid. The only time I can recall playing a kicking game with one of my buddies. It was a on going thing we did in school, mainly just for fun. Not only did we kicked, but we was play fighting, or back then horse playing around, I know one day I kicked my friend in the crotch, I thought that was the end of

I finally enter my room, with my mother trailing me in a hushed manner. She is watching me, making sure no harm comes my way. Her ever-vivacious gaze keeps me safe. Right now, she is staring at me with a bemused expression on her face, and I walk towards my crib motioning for her to lift me in. I

The cards were new to raising a kid so they didn't know that they could say no. Everything she asked for she got. The cards did not want to be mean so they did whatever she asked. The queen of hearts did not have any friends, or even enemies there was no one. Just her and the 5 cards her whole child hood. She got bored sometimes, so she made the cards put on a show for her. She had no idea what spoiled was.

The little girl had long dark hair, a lot like Anne’s. “Mary?” Anne asked “Is that my little girl Mary? Look how big you’ve grown.” Anne was impressed that her new child was so strong. Mary looked at Anne from across the room. A smile slowly started to emerge across her tiny face; she dropped the dog and ran over to Anne. “Mama, Mama I knew you’d come. Look Daddy look!” Mary cried with excitement. “Daddy look, she came out of the woods, I told you she would.” Mary threw her tiny arms around Anne and embraced her in a warm hug. Anne looked up to see Jane smiling in the living room doorway.

Her shoulders sagged as if carrying too much weight. Her solemn, deeply creased, face made it obvious that she had seen better days, though these days were buried deeply in the past. My eyes moved to woman’s face. Every deep wrinkle told a different story. Betsey explained she could no longer see very clearly, now relying solely on tactile memories. Shortly after, she asked politely if she could touch my hair. Her rough, callused hands glided gently against my cheeks, as she caressed my hair. The look in her eyes spoke more than words could in that moment. She broke eye contact quickly looking to the embroidered white tablecloth. The last time she had held her granddaughter was a year ago. She told me of how her family no longer visited and