By admin
I’m a writing mentor with an organization called WriteGirl. I meet weekly with my 15-year-old mentee, C, at the Huntington Gardens and Library. We write together about this and that, and each year WriteGirl publishes an anthology of the work of all the girls and their mentors. (You should pick one up!) I’m tired of all this writing just sitting in my journal, so here is a story I wrote during one of my meetings with C.
Moving Day
Shelby sat on the floor, hugging her bent knees, staring blankly at the boxes when she should have been packing. Moving again—new house, new friends, new school. Her features hardened as she thought about it, mouth tightening and eyes narrowing in an effort not to cry. Standing weakly, Shelby tripped through the cardboard maze, barking her shins on the loose flaps of the unsealed cartons. She reached a pile of stuffed animals and scooped up a furry armload, ignoring the bite from the scrapes on her legs.
Unable to see the way back over Snowy and Frisky, Hephzibah and Elton, Shelby charged heedlessly into the maze. She stumbled and tumbled hard into stiff corners and rough edges, adding a bruised hip and elbow to her catalogue of injuries. She lay motionless in a heap on the floor, listening for footsteps. No one came.
Shelby started to cry, angry at the boxes, angry at herself, angry at her toys. She sat up and hurled them across the room at the waiting box. Onetwothreefour. Elton hit with a kunk and slid down the wall. Hephzibah and Snowy pmphed into the animals already packed away. And Frisky made a small groaning noise as he umphed to the floor beside the box.
Stricken with guilt, Shelby stared over the cardboard battlements at her loyal friends. Her tears renewed and redoubled as she crashed back to the box. Blinded, she reached down and picked up the nearest toy. She was still wrapped around Frisky, the black bear’s fur matted and wet, when her mother came into the room.
By admin
I’m a writing mentor with an organization called WriteGirl. I meet weekly with my 15-year-old mentee, C, at the Huntington Gardens and Library. We write together about this and that, and each year WriteGirl publishes an anthology of the work of all the girls and their mentors. (You should pick one up!) I’m tired of all this writing just sitting in my journal, so here are a pair of stories I wrote when C and I sat on a bench speculating on the inner lives of the animals.
Smarter Than Your Average Squirrel
An Englishman sips his tea in the dappled sunlight, his body arranged on the bench in a close approximate of relaxation. He tips his head toward his watch, face obscured by a canvas gardening hat. He studies his phone, his watch, his phone, but time does not move any faster. He glances around, stares at his watch again, looks up. He stills, smiling slightly, wrapping both hands around the paper to-go cup, to keep warm or in prayer. His eyes follow the zigzag path of a squirrel as it makes its cautious way across the park, tree to tree. “Secret agent squirrel,” he thinks, slipping the phone into his pocket. He adjusts his hat, rises from the bench, casually checking for a tail. He sets off after the squirrel. “Gotcha.”
* * *
The tree rustles, close to the top at first. Slowly the movements migrate lower, circling the tree in fits and starts until they stop, and a gray squirrel emerges from the undergrowth. He sits up on his hindquarters and glares at me accusingly. His tail twitches and I grow roots, unable to move for fear I’ll scare him away or inspire him to charge. He tilts his head to the left, so I do, too. We stand facing each other, the squirrel and I, heads cocked toward the sun. He never blinks, and I feel certain he will be able to read my thoughts if I continue to meet his stare. He begins to slowly rub his tiny front paws together, and I struggle not to do the same. He seems diabolical, holding me in his thrall. I am about to break away when he speaks. “Are you going to eat that?” he asks, inclining his head toward my half-finished sandwich.
