- Hey, the second one is pretty good for something written by a 13-year-old! The first one reminds me of when I used to write Warriors fanfiction.
@Food
- Oy vey, that's horrible! What a terrible teacher. Part of me hopes your grandmother was lying just to tell a good story, but I doubt it.
- One of my cousins is a fantastic poet, but that's it. We have a lot of artists on my dad's side and a lot of bookworms on my mom's, though.
Find a piece of writing from when you were very young and post it. Do not edit out any grammar mistakes.
- This is the oldest I could find; it's from when I was 11 or 12. Goodness gracious, I was actually kind of proud of it then, but whatever this is...I hate it.
11 or 12 year old Worst wrote:My feet grow tired as I walk through the foothills, heavy cloak on my head, flowers in my bag,
a goal in my mind. I waved off the pretty girls who carry my palanquin a while back; this is a journey only I
should and will take. Besides, I still have to pass through a few villages to get to my destination, and I don’t
want townspeople flocking to me or whispering about me.
“Only a short bit longer, darling,” I say to myself like a mother reassuring her child. My feet
pad on in silence. No one responds to my quiet murmur. People have told me my voice sounds like molten
silver. I think that’s idiotic.
Sharp mountains line my vision. Tiny birds—starlings, I think—sweep through the sky, happy
creatures. One chirps; another trills. The tiny flock swoops in front of the sun. Lucky birds. They don’t have
a thing in the world to stress about. All of them are probably laughing at me, right now.
The sun is setting. I hate walking, just because there’s nothing to do but think. Worries
swirl about in my brain like all those little starlings that still follow me in the sky. What if the Sjorkans
reject our peace treaty? What if there’s war? What if my test tubes break, and what if there’s a coup?
What if—
The worries scurry to the edges of my mind, for I see it—the tree, that is. The gnarled old
tree that bends down from its place on the cliff into the patchy green grass, the gnarled old tree that I always
go to when I stress too much, the tree I pray under, the tree where he is.
I break into a run. Rocks fall from beneath my feet, and I finally reach the place under the
tree. It’s a small section of the Majestic Purple Mountain where a small bit of rock juts out of the cliff face.
On this bit of rock, the Dubček Ledge, a gnarled tree grows with lavender, violets, patchy grass, and little
white mushrooms. I’m not sure how it all got here; the plants are more suited to a forest environment than
the ledge on a cliff face.
I let my weight fall onto a patch of grass right under the tree, but far enough from the
grave that I’m not lying on it. Yes, there’s a grave here, and it’s a very important one.
I bury my nose in my paws, letting my silk scarves fall out of place, letting my tail hang
off the ledge, letting the grave in front of me fill my mind with memories. The man buried here would
always bring me old artifacts instead of red roses, books instead of chocolates, and new test tubes
instead of jewelry.
“Alexei…” I murmur, “how long has it been?” Ten years, now, since he died. “Passed”,
if you want to sugar-coat things, and I never do.
I smile softly at his grave. New grass grows over it, which I made sure had a hint of
the color purple so that I would always be able to tell the grass on his grave from the grass around it.
I pull out my satchel, which has three fat, purple hydrangeas in it. He was always the one to like
flowers.
I lay down the flowers across the grave. I take in a slow breath as I look at the pretty
flowers. If I placed them right, they are directly above Alexei’s chest, separated from him by only a
few feet of dirt and rock.
“Alexei, I know you can’t hear me,” I say, “but I’m here. Please, know that I’m here,
and I love you. I’ll see you again when I die, then we can be together again, but now I have to be here
on Earth.” I take a deep breath. “How long can it be?”
With that, I get once more to my feet, letting my shoulders slump. As quickly as I can,
trying not to look back, I make my way down the mountain. “How long can it be?”
<3
.jpg)
