Start Your Writing Here: A Short Story

After months and months of preparing for the big race, the day has finally come. It was a perfect summer day, when Ronald Raptor and his friends Tiffany, Travis, and Barbra strolled up to the Blaze’n Race’n Track. Someone else was walking up too, a ginormous, mean, green, dinosaur named Tyrone the T-rex. Just a glance in his direction makes the hairs on the back of your neck spike up, but he was jealous of Ronald. To sum it up, Ronald wins at life, he has friends , he’s cool, and he beats Tyrone every year. “But, this year would be different” Tyrone thought with a evil smirk on his face, “I have a plan”. Interrupting Tyrone’s mastermind plot was Ronald’s laugh, making him remember how lonely he was, but nevermind that. It was time to start.

On a lively spring morning you can hear the birds singing and the rainwater from the previous night dripping on your window. As you walk outside you could feel the sun on your skin followed by a subtle breeze in the wind. You take in the air through your nose and

I start up the creaky stairs to my room and see out the window the city still showing its colors on the walls, banners, and lights alike.

One challenge I faced during my sophomore year was racism in my Honors English class with Ms. Rice. I was the only Hispanic student in the whole class, where I was often referred to as “Mexican girl.”

It’s 7:30am, I step outside onto my apartment balcony. Cars are zooming down the over crowded streets, staunch buildings towering over me blocking the greeny lush hills far away. People rapidly walking down the sidewalk. In front of my eyes are shimmery silver and navy colours reflecting from the sky high buildings, they stand out more than the joyous light blue sky itself. Sounding in my ears are cars angrily roaring every 5 seconds, people barking at taxis to stop, an earth shaking sound that’s mixed with sound of a hurricane that’s just the aeroplane taking off from the city airport. The mouth watering smell of the local bakery down the road lingers through my nose, I can taste those freshly baked scones in my mouth from here.

Everywhere we went my mom would say hello to somebody she knew. My sister and I would hide behind my mom, grabbing her by her jeans or each other in nervousness and we did not want my mom’s friend to see us. We would only come out when my mom would tell us to come forward and greet. My sister and I would look at each other before we said hi. The only times when we weren’t shy were when we would see our cousins. We would run up to them and try to play. My two or three year old body would try hard to keep its balance as I ran through the tan, dark, colored dirt road. I would often trip then fall on my face and cry. My mom would always scream at us” Que les dije woe no corran!”, “Didn’t I tell you not to run?” but we never listened. We were happy to run free getting our shoes dirty in the process and it gave me much joy to see people we knew everyday. Aunts and uncles would come over to our house and the smells of the frijoles, rice, nopales and sometimes meat cooking on the stove would fill the house. Lunch and Dinner were both eaten as a family, and tortillas were something you could not live without. With all the people and kids in the house you could see the dark muddy footprints all over the white tiles of the living room, and you could follow the footsteps into the kitchen.

“Let’s just start with the day you lost your sister,” the policeman encouraged the boy on. “The day I lost her, or the day I doomed her?” The boy couldn’t bare to lift his head more than an inch out of his hands. The tears have stung his cheeks since the day he lost her. “Time she was captured, boy, just describe the time she was taken,” he insisted, pushing a glass of water to me. Taking time to gather all the thoughts spilling and doing backflips in my mind, I start my story.

Billie is walking down the street, on her way home from school. She stops for a second, she sees a van pull up beside her on the road. That was very abnormal in her small town. The window to the van rolls down slowly, there is a guy with a mustache in the front seat, he says to her, “Where you heading to little girl.” She says nothing to him and continues walking. He once again pulls up beside her and she says, “go away.” He then pulls up to her a final time and asks her to get in the van, and that he knows what house she lives in. She firmly says no and continues walking down the road.

LITTLE WILL PENNY sat behind a dustbin in an alley just off a quiet commercial street somewhere in London listening to the sounds of the holidays. Christmas music floated above the din of traffic. A rotund old man in whiskers, glasses and a long red coat rang a bell in front of a candy shop. Kids pulled their mums and dads along the sidewalks searching for treasures in toy stores. Twinkling lights spread muted color into the gloom of the alley.

My story begins in London, England. I have two parents who seem to form an oxymoron, because even from a young age I could tell that they were the complete opposites from each other. I vividly recall living with my school friend for around a week and wondering what I had done to deserve such a fantastic vacation. When I was finally allowed to return to my parents, I did not return to the apartment I was familiar with, but a duplex house with another family I had never met before. It was much later in life, through discussion with my parents, that I learned that we were evicted. This kind of financial struggle has followed me all throughout my life. There has only ever been enough revenue to make sure our stomachs are full and to pay the bills. Afterwards, barely anything. However, these struggles have taught me that money is not happiness. In my house, there was and still is, consistent laughter. The oxymoron made it known that they loved me, no matter what the circumstance may have been. They taught me that family is important; life is can never terrible when family is there. I vowed that when I have my family, I would work as hard as I can to maintain happiness at home because happiness is the greatest medicine, the healer of all ailments.

Callie, my best friend said she was going to visit her father. She walks up to the door and is about the ring the doorbell when she notices that the door is cracked open. Why is it open? she asks herself. She pushes open the door slowly.

I got out of bed and threw on the clothes I had set out the night before. I made my bed, brushed my teeth, did my hair. It was just like any other day. I ran to the kitchen where i met my half asleep brother. He was bragging that he didn't have to go to school and i did. I wasn't hungry, but i forced myself to eat a waffle before the school bus got to our house. As the garage door raddled open, a bright stream of sunlight hit my face. The sound of the birds chirping and cars driving by greeted me as i waited outside. The ground was wet from a summer morning dew. Except, it wasn't summer anymore. In the corner of my eye, I see a long yellow school bus coming around the block. Its brakes screech and the doors fling open. I climb on board, only to realise that i am one of the first people on. I find a seat and sit back in a comfy position. After a few stops, I hear some familiar voices. We talk about our worries and concerns for a while but then we arrive.

“Momma look!” This little girl was standing on hill, the wind blowing her dress and hair in all different directions. This was the perfect time to do what she loved; fly her kite.

Sirens could be heard from all over the city. The news was on in every house, reporters saying “Convicted of robbery, Emily Stanford seen running down the streets of New York. The last we saw her was she was heading down to the bus stations. If anyone has any information on where she is going please call the police station.”

My story begins when I was in 3rd grade and I was home alone. And I was 7 or 8 years old I’m the youngest of my siblings. During my third grade year I was a troublemaker only at home, at school I was what you call one of the goody goods. Me and my brother Colin, who is 2 years older than but acts like a kindergartner, well that my opinion would get in trouble all the time at home.