Creative Writing : A Short Story

I remember the first day I walked into my kindergarten class, I clenched my mother’s hand with all my might to prevent her from letting go. The kids around me, whom I supposed were my classmates, had long let go of their mother’s had and were playing together, and even as a five year old, at that point I felt like an outsider. I pleaded my mom to not leave but my attempts failed as I found myself alone yet surrounded by complete strangers. As I stood in the center of the room while pushing back my tears and eyeing my mother make her way out the door, I heard the teacher call my name. I timidly walked towards the spot on the yellow carpet she was signaling at for me to sit on. I heard Mrs. Ross’s soothing voice but no matter how much I concentrated

For some people reading can be a difficult experience. For me it became difficult at the age of five years old. I really wasn’t an educational kid I was more of a kid that like to play with my toys and four brothers, whenever they came home from school. As I grew up reading became a little more difficult for me to master, at times in my middle school my teacher Mr.G would test us on how well and skilled we were at reading. Every day when it was time for him to test me I would get nervous and started to stubble on words and fail my test. By the time I was in high school I learned how to take my time and read, which has help me to progress my reading skills over the years.

As a reader, I have always struggled. From the first time, I began to read to now. We never understood why until I was in sixth grade. In sixth grade, I was tested for dyslexia and as a result we found out I was dyslexic. Through my grade school and high school years We did everything and anything to help me to read better.

Reading was very diffuclt to me. The pronouncing and putting two-three letters together was discouraging. “Th” or “et”, made me feel like I was illiteric.

I put on my dress and look in the mirror. Hm I'm not sure I like it, I'll

Shock, confusion, emptiness, depression, the feeling of unknowing! Unknowing is the worst feeling, it’s a natural instinct to want to know every detail you can get, we had none of the details, it aggravating not having answers. After so long I gave up trying to find the details and all came to a silence, a dead impeccable silence. With nonentity else to talk about it came time to decide to finish the school day, or head home. Choosing to finish school, then return home, which was the last place I needed to be. Returning home would only leave time to ruminate about the dreadful news I’ve just received. I’d prefer to finish an ordinary day at school with my friends, then be home alone swimming in my sorrowful

Learning to read was a struggle for me. My father never had the opportunity to attend school of any kind, being born in the early 1940’s and with several siblings; he went to work at about the age of eight. My mother made it to junior high before have to leave school to start working. This factored into my early struggle with reading. My parents were unable to help me with reading and spelling. I was not that little girl that got bedtime stories read to her, and there were few books around the house, even with my parents’, especially my mother realizing how important an education would be for me. My mother intended for me to not have to work as hard as she and my father did. I was also fortunate that the school I attended talked to my parents about special education for the learning disability that I was diagnosed with. Through special education, I received quality one on one instruction.

Again, the dark laughter echoed in her head. Shit, shit, shit. She was so damn stupid, so bloody arrogant. In spite of the sunglasses she wore to lessen the risk of overstimulation to her senses, the lenses were no safeguards against the weighted stares of the people on the bus, and Tung wasn’t here acting as a buffer.

I had a few obstacles in reading growing up that did not help me at all. In elementary school I was in special reading classes. Nothing really ever caught my eye when I had to read. My teachers always picked what I had to read, I was not given the choice to read what I wanted. I also had a really hard time understanding what I was reading because of that I would always fritter my time away. I would just sit there and pretend like I was doing my work. I just disliked reading and everything that went with

I now stood in the empty hall. The walls were made of cold cobblestone, lined neatly forming the long hallway to the feeding room. The building, Mrs. Reed’s residence was an old castle created from stone and iron. The hallway was dark only being illuminated by infrequent sconces sitting on the walls two inches below the ceiling. There were no windows as the residents of the castle, being stalkers of the night, had an incredible aversion towards the beating rays of the sun. Before me was the feeding-room door, where the creatures that lived in the castle fed upon their provided pints of blood every evening at midnight. I stopped, intimidated and trembling. What a miserable little poltroon had fear, engendered of unjust punishment, made of

My struggle to read usually ended up with me taking well over an hour to get my assignment done. I didn’t know at the time, but that extra amount of effort and time would become a constant occurrence in my life. It is my struggle with dyslexia is something in my life that goes unnoticed that has given me so much appreciation for my education.

Several years ago I endured a big challenge. Throughout elementary school, speaking and reading out loud did not come easy to me. I struggled with pronouncing words and the thought of saying words that contained a r or a s made me cringe. My challenge impacted my daily life and affected my thoughts on reading altogether. Now as I look back on it, I realize my challenges in speaking influenced my desire to read.

(they were called monitors) so we followed her right to the front door of our classroom There stood a pretty young woman with a big smile on her face her name was Miss Pargenberg We entered the classroom and was told to stand in the front she then called each name out and assign us a seat after that we were told to hang up our coat in the closet this was done in order row by row

It was a sunny afternoon, after school, towards the end of my seventh-grade school year. When I came home and walked through the door, I went to the table to start doing my homework. About five minutes in, there was another unfamiliar family ready to walk out of my house. I thought nothing of it. Maybe it was just some family friends of my parents and they were here to help with something. I was in the midst of working on math homework when my dad called my sister and I into the other room. Both my parents were in another room, paying bills. I remembered this because they had told me to keep quiet. At first, I thought, I was about to be grounded. Typically, my sister and I are only called together because she had told on me for something. I was prepared for the usual “Leave your sister alone” talk. Except this time, my father’s voice was not angry. It was more sad, almost expressionless. My sister was the first to walk into the other room, myself following behind. “Sit down, we need to tell you something important.” My mom was sitting next to him, so then I knew whatever I was about to be told was something serious. Short after my dad said this, my sister followed with saying, “Is Anthony in trouble?” “Shut-up, Kristina,” I said angrily. “No, neither of you are in any trouble,” said my mom. Before I had any time to ask her why I was here if I was not in trouble, she said “Dad had just lost his job.”

Soon I started being able to remember words and was able to read a few