D For Disappearance: A Fictional Narrative

Emily awoke to someone quickly shaking her awake. She slowly opened her eyes until someone jolted her out of bed. She could easily tell by the strong grip it was her father. “Emily, wake up! The building’s on fire!” Before eight year old Emily could respond, her father grasped her in his arm’s and attempted to run outside, when a piece of the ceiling fell down in front of them. His wife screeched from the front door, her eyes wide with terror and tears raining down her face.

The air was thick with the smell of sulfur. The sky looked overcast, but there was only a slight chance of rain. The path was slick with mud, the person ahead of me was struggling to move forward. Every now and then a bird would fly by, probably a tern or gull, but maybe a bald eagle if we were lucky. When I looked down I could see the little holes that the fiddler crabs lived in. We passed both of the waist-deep holes--nobody fell in that time, not accidentally at least. We finally arrived at the salt pan in the middle of the marsh. While there, the participants in our camp received a talk about the soil they were standing on. Instead of listening, that time I stood away thinking about what we were heading into next. The mud pit was one of

One night, while Lizabeth struggles to fall asleep, she abruptly wakes up to the sound of her parents arguing. Upon closer inspection, she can hear her father say “Twenty-two years, Maybelle, twenty-two years... and I got nothing for you.” (Collier 146). Her mother tries to calm his festered feelings of failure as a husband, which is to no avail. Watching her family balance go into disarray, Lizabeth panics

I weave in and out of the last of the summer apple trees, beside the deep pool, the weeping willows cry out as the wind rattles their bones. The howling tempestuous wind carries me into a clearing where a little girl, with her hair like an inferno splayed around her head like a delicate band, lies asleep in the silvery moonlight. I fly right up to her and land on her chest, where a scarlet black rose lies dead upon her breast. I wake up. I don’t know where I am.

Shoes digging deeply into moist earth, I catapulted myself to over the Mound. Cresting it revealed a gentle slope leading towards the calm Silver Lake below. The sky above was a soft periwinkle blue and as I looked further west, protracted bands of violet, pink, red and orange clouds claimed the vista. The hills slope was a dull reflection of the sky and atop the ground our cabins sat comfortably facing the setting sun. I was to first to my group’s cabin and thus got to pick the top bunk of a bed with a window facing west, towards the sunset. The whole camp was told to put their belongings in their chest and to make their way to the lake. Tossing my bag on my bed, I ran after the sun with the other kids. On the beachfront of the lake, a great collection of twigs, sticks and logs had been set up. In a radiant brilliance, the sun said its last goodbyes and night took its place. The president sang the Camps motto and sparked the famished bonfire alive, sending a burst of scarlet red flames into the night and illuminating the solder pines that encircled the beach. Roasted marshmallows and chocolate bars filled the air with scents carrying the very essence of camping.

This short novel have taught me something important. This mere world of fictional characters, places, and actions have shown me that i've got a wonderful sister (don’t tell her I said that), and two outstanding parents. And that's all you need. Those connections, shared memories, and strong bonds is enough to keep a family together. Not a fancy car, a private island, or an unlimited bank accountant. So I say thank you Cadence, thank you Mirren, Johnny and Gat. Thank you for teaching me a lesson, for showing me that fiction is oh so close to

Her stomach quivered as if it contained a thousand butterflies. The night of the ball, when Landon had taken her into his arms in the moonlit garden and asked her to sail away with him, he had given her hope that she’d spend her life with someone she desired, rather than her uncle’s choice, Pratt, an aging plantation owner or Doctor Garrison, a colorless, bland physician. Hart had offered her an opportunity to flee from her father’s and Uncle Jared’s scheme to see her “properly” wed and cared for before the start of the harvest season.

… Her father had been talking with the scroungy village men, and of course they had been talking about how one's better than the other. And how great their kids are and all that kind of stuff. Than they started to talk about their families and how their daughters are the best children. Than the topic came up that their daughters do a lot of back breaking work and how they play an important hole in their households. Thinking about what the men were saying one father named Benjamin wanted all the attention on him for once. He is usually one of those people who do not usually get a lot of attention. Then all of a sudden he had a great idea, “Finally, I will get all the attention on me.” He whispered to himself.

The previous night, he was quite sure that he had seen a spiral of smoke, rising up through the trees toward the sky but he had yet to cross anyone's path or to have anyone cross his. As he ran, sprinkling pine needles along the forest floor, he gave the trees a few good knocks, just in case anyone could actually hear him at this distance and he could get a nice head start. He quickly came upon a campsite but one look told him that there was nothing to be done, playful or otherwise, at this site. The place was destroyed, the tee-pee torn to bits and pieces, and claw marks from wolves dug deep into the Earth surrounding the camp. There was blood splattered about on the ground, leading off towards the deepest, darkest part of the forest. Knowing there was nothing to be done for the poor souls that came across the wolves path, Bohpoli turned to his pine tree and began to climb his way back to the top, only to stop short. Bohpoli stood very still, he could just barely hear the sounds of rustling fabric, a piece near to where he was standing was starting to shift around a bit, barely noticeable in the busy forest. He walked over, lifted the bit of fabric and found himself staring eye to eye with a small child, a little girl

“MOM!” Diana can hear up the stairs, through the thin walls. Her daughter, Scarlet, stomps up the creaky wooden stairs, careful to skip the missing step. Diana calls exasperatedly, “In here, Scarlet.” Slamming the door open, Diana’s eleven-year-old daughter storms across the small, cozy room, coming to a stop at her mother’s queen-sized bed. A tear sheds from Scarlet’s hazel eyes, her auburn hair falling across her fair face. Dread seethes through Diana’s veins, fear rising from the pit of her almost-anorexic stomach. “Scarlet, what is it? Talk to me,” she pleads. The child’s mouth twists into a grimace as she mumbles, “Josh told me the reason you don’t spend time with me anymore is because-because you don’t love me.”

Her body lay strewn across the leather couch, limbs positioned unnaturally beside her. Once seemingly strong and prepossessing now nothing but an empty shell ready to rot and decay. The pills scattered across the wood floor laying evidence to her deeds. As her husband stands over her cold lifeless form gone is the only word that breaks through the fog. Gone are her aspirations, gone are her hopes, gone are the memories shared. Gone. What would you do in this kind of situation? How would you deal with losing someone as important as a friend, parent, sibling, or lover?

It was ironic, really; ghosts didn't need air, and because they didn't need air they couldn't drown, either...but Danny had to say otherwise.

She takes a deep breath in of the icy cold air and feels exihilarated. On her squeaky clean gown is the name sister Ella tucker. Sister tucker surveys the dark cold night and sighs deeply. Her life had been turned upside down and granted with enormous opportunity since the war was announced. Ella used to live in the Northern Territory as a cattle farmer. She reminisces of life in the dusty red northern territory. Every morning she would wake up to the rumbling groan of thousands of dust stained cattle, crying for food and water in the vast desert of scratchy red sand. The sand blew into every corner of the house no matter how much you did to stop it getting in. The trees were tortured into conformity with the harsh landscape, only giving as much as it took from the land. There was hardly any rain, but when the clouds came, she would become elated and the land prospered, but when it didn't come, the cattle would become thin and useless, their value decreased and her life would plummet into uncertainty when the money would come

A chestnut brown haired naive boy sat in the gloomy shadow of his cabin. The delicate spring air wafted the smoky smell of fresh cut grass into a sharply pointed nose and put his mind to ease. He felt his bare feet touch against the damp tender soil as the silver glow of the moonlight spilled from the sky upon the pages of his book. Lost in the adventure of thought he had almost escaped reality until the sound of his father’s heavy unsteady footsteps rushed into his ears. Immediately in shock, he stood up and scampered toward the narrow, pale backdoor and once inside the darkness of his home he stumbled around trying to find a hidden location for his treasured book.

The wind is soft but strong, my hair flowing behind me and also in my face, I don’t bother to pull it back because I forgot my hair tie at home. “I could stay here forever,” I say to myself. I am at my favorite place to be when I need time to myself. I found this place when I was thirteen and have been coming back since then. It is on the very top of the highest hill there is in the camp and there is a beautiful old tree that has been there forever, I climb to the top and just stare.