The scorching heat of the sun could be felt through the small crack in the window, allowing light and a suitable yet burning ray of sun to pass into the otherwise fairly lit room. I looked out the window, bored out of my mind, as my sister chattered on about her supposedly interesting enough-to-be-a-story day at school, irritating me to no end. One hand resting on my lap and the other barely supporting the weight of my head on its palm rendered it useless, as I could feel the numbing sensation creep up the length of my arm, from my elbow to the tips of my fingers. Shaking the hand in hopes of letting the sensation dissipate naturally, I opted to rest both hands on my lap as my sister crawled up the bed and continued her exciting adventure with the most unnecessary hand motions. Of course, I wouldn't be the one to say that. I've got a reputation to keep up with my mother for being the best older sister to get that new book hot off the shelf before all the author-signed copies are out. Finding her babbling to be no longer a source of interest, my gaze yet again fell upon the boxed-out window in our wall, focusing on one object, or rather a living being: standing tall against the repeated bashing it was receiving and resisting the sweat-filled clammy hands that roamed around its body while still allowing the owners of said hands to lie against themselves all the while protecting from the all-round heat that summer brings along every season. Like a book without the thin sheets used to write on it or ink without the long, rounded barrel of a holder, one cannot live without the other. I felt an unimaginable amount of pity for the poor tree for having to endure such suffering, and I truly commend it for standing so tall, lifting it's branches to it's highest peaks, and rooting itself so firmly to the ground that it would be a miracle for it to truly perish. I want to be like the oak tree. To stand proud against all that life throws at me for so many years to come. Against silly squabbles to grand disasters in my future, I wish to hold my head up high, proud of all I've gone through, like the oak tree out the window.
399 words
It's somewhat strange to write what I had previously written in text. It went from describing snow to an oak tree. I find my writing amusing to read back on. What an imaginative mind I had then! I'd still like to think that this piece is unfinished so that my future self can come back and improve it later on while seeing the difference over years of time and study. The ending is certainly rushed; I can feel that as a reader, but this was meant to be descriptive writing, not a narrative. Though I'm fairly certain the format is between the two, unless there is a technical definition for it or my writing leans to one format over the other, I will assume what I want to.
Goodbye then, Thank you for taking the time out of your day to read this. ❤
YOU ARE READING
Short stories from the top of my head
Non-FictionThere's no actual reason to read this. It's just a jumble of odd short stories that I've made throughout my years of living. I won't be using the actual vocabulary I used then, so you don't have to worry about trying to sort through my younger years...
