Mary Wall

United States of America

Aspiring Author
Dancer
Bookdragon
Icecream Consumer
Daughter of the King
Dessert Craver
Homeschooler
Adventurer
Dreamer
Coffee Drinker
Fangirling over the Ranger Apprentice Series
ISFJ

Message to Readers

Tell me what you think! And ideas would be nice too, because all I have it one plot point and even that's a bit weak.:)

For Keeps pt. one

February 16, 2019

FREE WRITING

4
   "Snowball fight!" shouted James, a chunky boy about my age. I sat in my little corner, watching my whole class rush outside, oblivious of me. My corner was shadowed by a huge shelf full of books that my teacher, Mrs. Nymone called her "little pet library", so I didn't blame them for not seeing me.
    It would have been nice to have someone to talk to during recess, but the snow was much more of an attraction than little me. It was actually okay, because I had a little window I could look out to watch the kids shoving snow into each others face. If I had to be honest, I would admit that the window held more fascination for me than the scene outside. The glass pane was webbed by lacy frost that distorted the snows-cape view. I traced the crystal patterns, melting them in places with the warmth of my finger. My breath fogged the glass from time to time and I usually didn't see the looks towards my window form Candice, my best friend--- mostly because she was my only friend. 
    Kyle, another boy in my class, subtly dropped a handful of snow down James' collar. I smiled as James yelped and clawed at his neck. He deserved that, I was sure. I sighed, looking away from the happy spectacle outside. 
    It hurt to see kids my age having so much fun while I had to stay indoors, out of the light. 
My skin disease forbade me from exposing my ghostly white skin to any sunlight. I'd break out in a horrible, itchy red rash similar to hives that covered my whole body for days. I spent half my life in the hospital, being drowned in antibiotics and recovering from the rash. No one knew--- exactly --- what it was. I just hated it.
    Besides all that, my parents were adopting a baby. What? I'm not enough for them? I don't fill the child slot? I mostly tried to ignore it and keep on with my regular life, but the amount of paperwork that they had to do was affecting our family time. Between my school, hospital visits, sports, and all the other things that filled my life, I hardly saw them anymore.
    I picked up the book on my lap, trying to psych myself up to forget what I was missing and to immerse myself in the " terribly interesting" ( my teacher's exact words) life of Little Dorrit. I loved Mrs. N, but this was possibly the most "terribly boring" book I'd ever read. But, to please my Charles Dickens crazy teacher, I opened the thick, leather bound book to the place I'd left off earlier--- the first chapter, which I'd been trying to read for the last week. The creased binding let out a satisfying crack that told of all the times it had been read, all the different hands that had held it through the years. That thought was more interesting than the book itself.
    Poor Mrs. N.

    "The universal stare made the eyes ache. Towards the distant line of Italian coast, indeed, it was a little relieved by light clouds of mist, slowly rising from the evaporation of the sea, but it softened nowhere else. Far away the staring roads, deep in dust, stared from the hill-side, stared from the hollow, stared from the interminable plain. Far away the dusty vines overhanging wayside cottages, and the monotonous wayside avenues of parched trees without shade, drooped beneath the stare of earth and sky. So did the horses with drowsy bells, in long files of carts, creeping slowly towards the interior; so did their recumbent drivers, when they were awake, which rarely happened; so did the exhausted labourers in the fields. Everything that lived or grew, was oppressed by the glare; except the lizard, passing swiftly over rough stone walls, and the cicala, chirping his dry hot chirp, like a rattle. The very dust was scorched brown, and something quivered in the atmosphere as if the air itself were panting."

    "Lila?" Mrs. N's soft voice broke my concentration and my head snapped up, startled by the sudden break in the silence of the classroom. My eyes focused on my pretty, young teacher, dressed in her usual floral blouse with pair of black jeans. Today the blouse featured a pretty pink lily-type flower from Peru, since we were studying South American ecology.
    She was standing right in front of me, arms crossed, one perfectly shaped eyebrow arched in a question. For one heart stopping moment, I thought I was in trouble. But then I saw the little curve of her lips, adorned in their usual "dusty pink" lip shimmer and my fears quieted immediately. I smiled a question at her, half closing the book in my lap. Her stern stance softened and she cocked her head at me. 
    "How would you like to help me with something?" she questioned. She knew there was no need. I was always ready to help. Except for that one time she had me help her catch the class frog that had escaped by some miracle (James)from its cage in the corner. That was one recess I will never forget for as long as I live ( which, by the doctor's estimate, could be within a year, by the time I turn thirteen, or when I'm one hundred. Doctors are horribly indecisive when it comes to 
these things.)
    With all this in mind, I gave a reluctant shrug. Mrs. N knew that was my equivalent of "sure". She smiled her bright, cheery, not-a-care-in-the-world smile (the one I've always envied). 
    "Well then," she began briskly, brushing her hands together,"I need your opinion on something,"she did a little prance over to her desk where she beckoned me to come. I gave her a confused look and then drew my coat over my exposed arms. I slid out of my "corner cushion"( aka, my recliner in the place where the walls make a 90 degree angle) and pulled my mask down from my forehead, covering my face with the cloth that acted as sunglasses for my ultra-sensitive skin. I shuffled  across the room, watching my tiny feet take painful steps. I hardly felt the pain anymore. I was so disengaged from my body, a very inconvenient symptom of my illness.
    When I finally reached the desk, my under used muscles had raised my breathing to be little labored. At least THAT wasn't going to kill me. 
    Well, as far as I knew. 
    "So, tell me," Mrs. N said, handing me a book about sixteen inches square, "what you think of the colors of my latest project." I took it carefully. She made a small snorting noise. "Sheesh, Lila, it's not going to eat you," she giggled like I imagine I might have had my tongue agreed to let me use it. But as it was, I retained a silence that rivaled Helen Keller's. 
    I opened the rainbow colored cover, hoping for a good, solid crack. Instead, I realized that the binding was a black spiral. Oh well. I gazed at the front page and found myself staring at a picture of myself, bare of my infernal mask and smiling happily. It seemed completely foreign tome, but there was a time that I could run around in the sun and would be free from my near constant companion, the rash. I was surrounded by my family, birthday decorations and strangely, more smiles. My parents crouched on either side of me, holding me close, our curly hair making a fluffy brown cloud. Even our green eyes matched---a detail that I loved. Then there was my older sister, Candice, standing right behind me her chin resting on my head. She broke our family trait by having black hair and black eyes. She couldn't help it though, since she was Indian( India Indian, not to be confused with the Native American Indians. You know, because people seem to assume everyone is talking about the United States everything. I like the U.S and all, but it's not the only country out there, guys). She was adopted, but we loved her just as well. Behind her, in a semicircle around us, a family made into a hug, was my aunts, uncles and cousins, all of whom( Aunt Jeanne would be proud of my grammar there) I loved and who loved me( Again with the grammar. It's a big thing in our family.)
    Staring at it, I realized it was my fifth birthday, the week before I broke out in my first rash. Tears welled up in my light, almost transparently green eyes. I could still remember swimming the night, at a local pool. It had been one of my favorite things, to swim in the dark, with glow in the dark toys lighting up the floor in a eerie, magical way. After the first rash, my skin had grown to sensitive to stand the chlorine and I had given that sport up. 
    I shot a glance at Mrs. N. She was grinning at me, unable to see my tears through the black fabric that covered my face. She was so happy. I turned the page. It was blank. I looked to Mrs. N for an answer. She nodded excitedly.
    "This is a scrapbook, or really anything you want it to be, but I'd love to see what you put in it," she clapped her hands and squealed. "I made it so that you can have a way to express yourself beyond using that blasted phone," she waved a hand at the cell phone in my back pocket. I had to smile. She thought of everything. I told her thank you through sign language, touching my fingertips to my chin. She leaned over and hugged me tight, whispering just before she let go,"You are special, Lila Raider. Never forget that."

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  • February 16, 2019 - 7:04pm (Now Viewing)

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5 Comments
  • LittleWolf

    Wow this is so thoughtful, it really shows that you have a great talent in writing!


    about 1 year ago
  • Mary Wall

    Thanks so much, palindrome!<3


    about 1 year ago
  • palindrome

    I love this! It's so sweet. I have a review coming your way for it...


    about 1 year ago
  • Mary Wall

    Thanks, Jess!


    about 1 year ago
  • Victoria Penning

    Aww!!!!! This is incredible!!! I can't wait to read more!!! XD


    about 1 year ago