My Birthday - Original Writing

I sat down at our little table with food already served. My mom was just done wiping down our counters just when dad came in the door. “Hello father!” I said cheerfully.

It was around 6pm when I received the call from my dad saying he needed to see my brother and I at his office within the hour. After I heard the words, “I need to talk to you guys,” I was not in the mood to chit chat. I told him what he wanted

“You must be hungry from not eating yesterday, please-” I cut her off with a sneer, heading out the front door and pulling it shut behind me. I saw her fixed in the middle of the living room through the front window, dejectedly holding the plate. Her eyes seemed more puffy and sunken than usual, which I took to assume she’d been crying more. Paying no mind to my pathetic excuse of a mother, I made my daily commute to the concert hall.

“YO!! I am home!” I shouted into my mom’s new house. After I said that I heard the sobbing and the heartbreak coming from my mom’s room. My mom came down to greet me with tears in her eyes.

My dad was calling, so I answered and he said “what was you thinking you just ruined your life you will never have nothing and I’m done trying to help you I will not do nothing else for you”.

Throughout the short story, The Birthday, the writer, Samantha Ashenhurst uses the writing tool: Get the name of the dog. To begin with, Samantha begins the story with a descriptive introduction, which gives the reader the ability to visualize the current circumstance’s atmosphere. For instance, the author mentions the specific kind of drink and pizza, the color of the blinds, the exact number of times she pukes, and takes medicine, etc. She describes the background’s setting in details as well. In my opinion, Samantha’s very specific, which portrays how honest she is. This also leads to building the writer’s own distinct voice. Thus, this effectively initiates a connection with the reader psychologically.

The sky was always blue holding sunshine rays in her world. Her name was Rosaline Deponte, my great-grandma. The continuous smile that she showed on her face reminded us how precious life is and to not take things for granted. Cold wood floors that could easily freeze toes, single-walled construction, shut rows of jalousie windows, and the smell of warm sweet bread on the counter 24/7, that was Rosaline’s house.

“You'll be ok I'm right here for you,” My grandma told me with a sad voice.

Ally sat against the wall head tucked in her knees crying in despair.She always felt so unlistened to.She wondered why this certain tension just seemed to infiltrate her.Ally then wiped her tears as her mother called for help with groceries.As she walked down, she saw her dad already helping her mom.She still decided to help with the groceries anyways.She tried to avoid any eye contact as her eyes were still puffy from the tears that had swept down her face.However, it didn't seem to matter much considering the fact that her parents didn't glance anywhere near her direction.They were too busy conversing about the way her dad's day went.Mumbling under her breath she said "thanks for asking about my day, glad to know you're concerned''.Ally then

Coming off the bus from my first full week of middle school, I vividly remember the abnormal absence of cars in the driveway. Using the spare key under the “welcome” mat, I opened the door only to find an empty house with the lights still on, TV running, and cold leftovers. As an eleven year-old coming home to an unusually vacant house, panic flooded my body. Immediately, I sprinted to the home phone and frantically dialed my mother. The dissonance rings that followed as I hit the call button seemed to last a lifetime; my breath drew still as those consistent buzzes stopped and my mother's comforting voice answered “hello”. The pounding in my chest ceased, yet worry still overpowered my conscience. She explained that she and my father had to abruptly leave to

The responses I received were not what I expected in the slightest. My dad greeted me with the usual, “Hey, how’s it going?” and was fully expecting to hear chatter about my day. Instead, I stopped to ask him with whom I was speaking. He paused, and with his favorite Darth Vader tone, responded, “I am your father.” He also made numerous attempts to break my strange new identity by asking personal questions, such as “How has your day been?” and “How was babysitting?” I persistently responded with, “I'm very sorry, but I am not sure what you are talking about!” His mood was not easy to deal with, nor was his relentless

I could hear her weeping from the other side of the door now. My mother’s loud crying was only interrupted by the broken speech she tried to spit out between her sobs. The dimly lit, cramped waiting room mixed the sounds of despair with some poor rendition of Chopin that blared intrusively from the perches of a pair of cheap speakers in the corner. On a short wooden table there sat a couple of magazines advertising the new happenings within the lives of people I did not care about. Next to that was one of those children’s play toys with colorful metal pathways for wooden shapes to glide across; bead mazes I would later learn that they were called. I crossed my legs in my chair and sighed as I let the sounds assault my eardrums. This was just

Jamming out to Katy Perry on the way home from my sister babysitting on the two of us chatted and joked around about what we thought was for dinner, we expected chicken since my dad despised it and he had left earlier that morning for a work trip down to Florida. Speeding through our maze of a neighborhood we arrived at the furthest house where we saw our aunt and uncles cars; not thinking much of this abnormal situation because they had been having family meetings lately about my grandparents condition. Lugging our days load of bags through the door we are greeted by the somber face of our mom; I thought something had happened to my grandparents and my sister asked what had happened as my mom struggled to speak the gut

It is April 4th. It is my 21 birthday.21 years ago I was born and got named Thea. My mom Emily, dad James, sister Maddison, and brother Liam are coming over to celebrate my birthday. There are a few things I must do before they come.

The morning sunshine seeped through the cracks between my shutters, lighting up my room. I could hear the clock ticking and the rays of sunlight bouncing off of my eyelids. I barely got any sleep last night because I was ecstatic that tomorrow was, my birthday! I jumped up out of bed, how could I have forgotten that it was my birthday? Suddenly all of my drowsiness turned it into excitement and I jumped up, throwing the red gradient quilt off of my bed. I slowly walked out of my room, making very little noise, checking to see if anyone else was awake. I peeked through the intricate staircase railings and tried to spot anyone downstairs, no one was in sight. I tiptoed down the cream coloured stairs, reached the bottom and got startled when my mom yelled, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”, her voice bouncing off the walls of house. A grin so big spread across my face, I couldn’t believe I was turning four years old!