Annabella Twomey

United States

lover of reading, writing, exploring, and creativity

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I love any type of constructive feedback that will help my writing! Please feel free to be as critical as you want if you feel like you know something that will greatly improve the piece you are reviewing.

On The Surface

May 4, 2014

That girl. You could spot her in a crowd of people, not just for her glossy, hair and perfect makeup, but she has an aura of nothing but confidence. She's the one who has it easy in all areas of society, whether it be boys, looks, or athletics. You can't help but look in the mirror at your flat hair, longing for blonde locks, stare at your simple, house with plain gray shutters with a hint of disdain. You imagine the majestic mansion that she must occupy.

You ponder this imbalance between a "lucky girl" and an average one like yourself as you walk home from school. It's a brisk day, the wind harshly whips through your parka, so you decide to walk on the sunny side of the road, one you don't normally venture to. While walking, you begin to observe houses you've never seen before. A bright yellow one with blue shutters. A tall, brick one with a chimney spewing smoke. Right before you turn the corner onto your street, you see a flat, dark house, almost unnoticeable except for one luminous window facing the street.

The house is unkept, grass overgrowing, a lone, rugged truck in the driveway. You've passed this house countless times, always feeling bad for whoever had such a small, unpleasant place to live. You peer through the window and see what you least expected: the girl. Four little children squirm around a table, reaching their chubby hands towards a plate laden with slices of bread. She quickly passes out the food and runs her fingers exhaustedly through her hair. Her head turns to stare down at a man passed out nearby in a chair, and sighs. She bends over to pick up what looks like a can or glass bottle, throws it in the trash, pulls her long, golden hair into a pony tail, takes a deep breath, and goes to take care of the wrestling and shrieking children on the table.

You turn away, disbelieving of what you just saw through that window. As you walk home, you stare at your worn, but functional, shoes, and your simple, but expansive home, and think, maybe she isn't the lucky girl after all, but you are.

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