Fiction

I trudge down the leaf-strewn road, hugging myself against the frigid bursts of wind tugging at my jacket. I hop over a puddle and glance up as the clock-tower strikes six. I should’ve been home by now.

 As my classmates and I are dismissed from school, I decide to take the long way to my bus stop. For I have quite some thinking to do. I watch the birds fly. The squirrels scrambling for shelter as the howling wind picks up.

One day a girl went over to her grandma's house, she noticed that her grandma has kept all the cards anyone has ever sent her...

So, she asked why she kept them all

This was her answer

A little boy wakes up and he goes to his mom and says, "Why is my bed so small? I used to fit but now my feet stick off." The boy's mom says, "You're growing ..." 

A girl and her friend were sitting at their table during lunch...

I tell this story to my children often enough that I fear they will memorize it and think it real. I thought it was real too when I was younger. Now I know better.

I lived in a world where outer beauty is the only kind that people see. I’d rather observe it from a rocking chair at the library back home, bearing down on an incredibly scripted work of art.

I take a deep breath as I step into the office, prepared to share the story of why I am there. I am welcomed with the sight of a stern face and cold eyes. Sitting down I started my story.

Sirens sound, at 2:00 am. My heart pounds as I look out my apartment window and into the smoke.

I was waiting outside of my school's main doors ready for the school day to start. At last kids start flocking the doors and I follow suit.

1

JEANNE: No, Monica! Too many times, I’ve just been like “hell, could be worse.” I take too much from people: from my mother, my husband, my god-forsaken children.