Creative Writing: Microscopic Bullets

I went to my living room to ask my mom a question, to see she wasn’t there. I asked my brother “where’s mom?” and he replied with “shes at the hospital, grandpa got burnt.” I would never have expected “grandpa got burnt” to be as severe as it was. I remember my mom coming home around two in the morning. I got up and out of bed to ask some questions. She said “I don’t wanna talk about it right now. Pack some stuff up, we’re going to Waterloo tomorrow.” So I listened and packed up a bag.

When I woke up in the morning, my mom had left for work. My dad was singing in the kitchen, banging pots around. I got up, tiptoed down the hall, washed my face. A neatly wrapped present lay on the bathroom counter. It was addressed to me. I stuffed it into my robe pocket, and rushed back down the hall. Under the covers, I opened the package. On the first page of a small, leather notebook, an inscription read: to a writer, love your mother. I never wrote anything in the notebook. I could never think of anything good

“Your grandfather didn’t just die Faith, he was murdered. My father put rat poison in his wine that night that our families got together for a dance. I tried so hard to stop him but he locked me up in my room so I couldn’t.” Embry had a shaky voice and a loud cry now. My head swarmed with terrible thoughts that I couldn’t get out of my head. My whole family thought he died of a heart attack. What if my parents really knew the truth and weren’t telling me? Why is Embry going for me and not anybody else? I collapsed to the ground. Lily immediately ran out from the popcorn cart and held me tight. It felt like my world was coming to an end. Embry kept apologizing like it was all her fault.

One Saturday morning, my mom received a phone call from my grandpa in Sandusky. After she hung up the phone, she told us all to get ready quickly. She wouldn’t give away any information yet. Within one hour of the phone call, we were in the car traveling to Sandusky. During the trip to Sandusky everyone remained silent; until mom decided that the time

The morning wind is as cold as ice, slicing passed my skin while I’m standing against it. It always like today of every year: cloudy, cold and sad. Like the sky is crying with me. I blend down to a tall, sleek, marble stone with the name “Amelia Bennett” written on it. That’s my mother’s name. She died when I was 7 year-old, it’s odd that I have the memories of her very clearly in my brain. Most children probably won’t. But I do, and I when I do, I missed her. I don’t even know what happened on that tragic day. I was blacked out and the next thing I remember is that she’s now laying deep underneath my feet. No one knows what happen, or no one wants to talk about it, not even my aunt. She’s the one that take me in after the accident. Why? Because

I can clearly remember the last day I saw him. His heart was growing weaker and weaker as the months went by, so I started to visit him more often. I walked up the narrow dirt path up to his quaint old house. The vivid yellow roses that once covered his lawn, were all shriveled up. He was lying in bed when I came in. His face looked washed-out, and his body

I knew something was wrong with my great-grandma because we would only travel to Mexico to visit her. When we arrived outside my great-grandma’s house were two police cars and an ambulance. My mom ran out of the car and into the house, my dad followed her. My dad told us to wait in the living room and turn on the television while he and my mom talked to my aunt. A couple minutes later my mom comes into the room and tells me, “your great-grandma committed suicide.” When I heard those words it’s like the world paused, I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t react, I couldn’t move. She also told me it happened in the backyard, although she said I had to stay inside I had to go see for myself. I walked outside and I’ll never forget what a saw, it was my grandma except it wasn’t the upbeat, lively great-grandma that made the best apple pie I knew, it was a lifeless, somber version of her. After seeing her, I ran inside the house and

Upon arriving to our apartment, my sister, brother, and I shared three hours of endless stories my mom had missed. Soon after, my parents decided it was time for bed. Having lost in a round of rock, paper, and scissors, I was forced to sleep on the floor with my parents while my sister and brother took over the bunk beds. Within a couple of hours into falling asleep, I woke up around 3’o clock from the floor vibrating with the bass notes from the bar downstairs. Scattered memories of my grandma suddenly rushed into my head: all the times I vented to her about how much I didn't want to go to piano lessons; the times I cried to her, limping back home with a bloody scraped knee; and the times we laughed together as my baby brother tried to talk to SpongeBob and Patrick through the TV. The last memory was the final straw, and I was ready to explode with the welled up tears from trying to seem like I had it all together. Still trying to hide my true emotions, I banged my head against the wooden leg of the bunk bed in an attempt to cover the true source of the teardrops. After hearing the loud thump, my parents immediately woke up asking me, “What’s wrong, what happened,” and going along with being the boastful kid I was, I responded, “I hit my head on the bed.” My mom replied, “Everything will be okay.” But everything was not okay because my grandma should have been next to me but instead, she was half way across the world.

It was my mom's older sister, Chas. All I could hear was the mumbling of my aunt on the other end of the phone. My mom did not say much, and the phone call did not last long. My mom's face showed fear and anxiety, and instantly I knew it wasn't good news. "Trent was in a terrible accident this morning with a couple of friends out in Plainville," my mom said in dismay. She walked out to her car to charge her slowly dying phone because almost every item we owned was packed away in boxes. The house was quiet; the sound of the heat pumping away was evident. I did not know what to think; my dad and I just hoped my cousin Trent was going to be okay. My mom was outside sitting in her car waiting for a call back from her sister. My brother stood outside with her. I sat in the packed living room full of unopened boxes. My dad was in his room trying to forget about the uneasiness of what might happen. My ten-month-old baby brother was sound asleep along with my two-year-old little sister. She laid in her crib peacefully with her blanket snuggled up to her face

Outside as I lean onto the rugged, worn down wall I can see her scarlet dripping face clouded with never-ending tears. My hands are frosted from the trembling weather, and my tears have blocked the sound of cars and smell of firewood. It’s only been three days, yet the feeling of being alone in such a big world has filled us with angst. My mom is right in front of me, through the fogged over window I’m gazing in. She has somehow found a way to fill an empty house with dread, which overbears the silence and covers up the scent of vanilla from the bile filling her mouth. Her pain fills me with dread as I taste the freezing sap from the window seal and catch a slight smell of the pine trees that surround us.

Pulling into the cemetery on a Sunday morning always has a gloomy feeling to it. Especially when it’s deserted and you’re driving quietly through with your grandma in the driver's seat, who's sitting more stiff than usual. As she pulls up to my grandpa’s grave and parks, is when I don't know what to do, and where she has so much she can do. She starts off by going to the back seat to collect the bouquet of flowers she goes out and gets every week for him. Slowly approaching his grave, she places the flowers and gently caresses his tomb, then proceeds to take a few steps back. After a few moments of silence, we start to say a prayer together, yet it doesn't take long until it's over and tears start streaming down her face. Barely remembering him, I didn't have the same emotions to share, I couldn't even understand why she was crying, I wanted to tell her she doesn't have to, but I simply didn't understand, so I'd stay quiet. As she gets herself together, we both return to the car, where she sits down,

I stare at the black bolded words as laughter escapes from my mouth and the room starts to spin. I keep staring at the text and felt a snap, and a wave of grief took over as my phone gets blurrier and blurrier. Not noticing the tears streaming down my face I look up and realize I didn’t get to say my goodbyes. I just couldn’t believe the text. I read it once again, “She’s dead.”

When we arrived, I felt myself shaking, pacing, and staring at the floor as a last attempt to do whatever I could to keep it together. We walked through the front door into a house filled with people. Right past the entrance was a table covered in bouquets. That was it! All I could take, and it hit again, the tears, shaking,

I opened the brown, dull door and found a giant smile, stretched ear to ear with my grandma’s face sitting behind it. My grandparents rushed into our house and my grandpa gave me a hug so tight that I could barely breathe. After they got settled in, my parents tragically walked out the door with their tightly-packed suitcases. My brother and I gave them each a huge hug before they speeded away for a serene vacation. My grandparents sat on the old grey sofa and bombarded my brother and I with questions about our current life. It was time for dinner and instead of the gourmet meals my parents usually prepare, Evan and I gorged on toaster-oven chicken fingers and microwave mac-and-cheese, the only meal my grandmother could perfect. I got ready to go to sleep and sat on my bed, deep in thought. I pondered on what my parents were doing, what they were eating for dinner, and what fancy hotel they would be staying at. I was happy that they finally caught a break from their stressful lives, but I also could not wait for them to return. Days passed by, and each day followed the same routine; Evan and I went to school, came home, did homework, ate dinner, and went to bed. On Wednesday afternoon, I came home and my brother was watching a basketball game, clenching the remote in his left hand. I complained that he was watching too much television and he fought back with explaining that he was older and had

Both my parents burst through the doors, looking slightly concerned. “Mehak, why are you screaming?” My mom questioned. My eyes started to get watery, thinking of all the terrible possibilities, and I got a feeling in my gut that something was wrong. “Grandpa... H-he...w-were t-talking a-and h-he started c-coughing a-and the l-line w-went d-dead.” I stuttered, not knowing what to think. My dad flew out of the room, probably to contact my grandma about what was going on.