Ignore this Title

A young boy’s grandparents owned a farm. One day the boy approached them after working in the field. He whined, “I am tired of working. I am sore and the sun is beating down on me.”  The grandfather merely nodded, and said, “Fine. You are tired and may stop. So for two weeks the young boy stayed home. One afternoon after playing with his friends he returned to visit his grandparents. He was surprised by what he saw.

“Grandma!” he cried. “Why didn’t you tell me what had happened? The field is covered in weeds, and the animals are hungry.” “Of course,” his grandmother replied. “With no one to assist us, the field was ruined, and the animals were starving.  So every day the boy returned to work on the farm. Because of his efforts he provided a rich harvest to supply his whole family. If you put enough effort into something, it will pay off.

The lone set of swerving wheels left deep ruts pressed into the snow. The old man driving the cart hunched over, snowflakes clinging to his eyelashes. An old wool cap sitting on his head shielded his ears from the blistering wind. His horse, Amelia, frothed at the mouth as she trundled down the dirt road, her wild brown mane turned white.

Gently talking to his horse, he stopped at a fork in the road. Gloved fingers scratched at the stubble on his chin as he surveyed the two roads before him. Trusting his gut, he turned to the right fork and and clutched the reins between nearly frozen fingers. He whipped them up and down and Amelia continued toward their destination, snow laden aspens creaking overhead.

It was nightfall when he finally reached the cabin perched at the top of the hill. Smoke drifted from the chimney only to vanish between millions of white specks in the sky. An enticing aroma drifted from inside, but he led Amelia to the stables. Giving her a slight tap on the flank as if to say good-bye, he tossed in a bale of hay and left her to her well-deserved dinner.

Snow crunched under his feet as he managed to get to the top of the hill again and knock on the door. It opened to reveal a slight margin where someone’s eye was peeping out. Suddenly the door flew open and a young boy toppled onto his grandpa, clinging to his knees. A man in the wicker chair adjacent to the wall smiled, setting down his mug on the rickety table next to him. Half walking, half pulling, the old man settled into an unoccupied chair by the fire.

“Returned, have you, Samuel?” his son-in-law asked. The older man, Samuel, stopped warming his hands. Samuel’s daughter deposited a bowl of soup in his lap and gave her father a small hug before hurrying away.

“Yes, I have,” he replied. “It sounds like you’re surprised, Jeremiah. I sent a letter to you nearly a month ago.” Samuel held his spoon up to his mouth and blew. Jeremiah turned white but his expression remained jovial.

“That’s funny. We never received it.” Lying through his teeth, the nerve, thought the old man, continuing his meal. Jeremiah cast around for another subject. “So, how’s Fay faring?” Samuel peered down at the bowl, swirling the contents around. “Not well. But at least my son is caring for her. I was going to pass through here to get supplies, and, that’s why I showed up here, to visit.”

He could that this winter was going to be as frigid as his visit there.

Rover rolled around in the grass, his ears flapping as he wagged his tongue joyfully. The mud that caked his fur turned his normally white color into a dirty tan coat. I laid down my pen and surveyed the countryside, smiling glumly. I wish I could spend more time with the dog, the family, but I’d already been here too long. My broken right arm was in a sling, which made writing my essay all the more difficult.

Mark called me in for dinner. Like I’d listen to him, after that horrible moment where he’d pushed me too hard and I’d broken my arm. My heart longed to forgive him, but I couldn’t. I wanted to run away but to where, back to the city, to boarding school? Mark called me again. I set down my paper and sighed. “Be there in a minute,” I yelled.

The sun was almost completely swallowed up by the mountains when I returned back outside to the wicker chair on the porch. The steady thrum of crickets chirping beat against my ears. I smiled. Rover bounced onto my lap, and I extracted the extra biscuit I hid in my pocket and tossed it to him. Dirt caught under my fingernails as I ran my fingers through his fur, thinking.

Minutes spread over into days, and I regretted that I my arm was broken, limiting me from the activities I used to do. Instead I lingered out by the stream nearly every day, dipping my toes into the freezing water as I rocked back and forth on the tire swing. I continued with my essay, every now and then finding a place between the enormous tree roots where I could sit and ponder what else to include in my assignment.

It wasn’t fair that I had to go back, to leave my family in their tiny glade and return to suburbia for another 6 months. I stared the old cottage, the wind whispering through my hair, drawn back in two straight braids. Rover snuffled around my feet, whimpering occasionally. Mark hung back by the doorway, his dark hair obscuring his face. I knew he was jealous of me, because I was getting a better education than him.

The small house vanished as our old pick-up barreled down the road. Rover ran as fast as his tiny legs would let him, but eventually abandoned the chase. Dad tried to get me to talk, but I was silent. It was hard to believe that I, a girl from the country, could have ever made it to such a prestigious place. When we arrived at the train station it was with a heavy heart that I wheeled my suitcase up onto the train. I looked back at my dad, but soon the billowing smoke obscured him. A single tear fell down my face as I sat back in my seat, completely alone.

Zebediah Duncan observed his prize from across his desk. His fingers traced the familiar scar running from his left ear to his chin. A cruel smile rested upon his lips. It was his turn for revenge.
The girl slumped in the chair in front of him had long dark hair rippling down her back. Underneath her closed eyelids were eyes of a resplendent green hue. Golden earrings dangled from her ears, only to be complemented by a softly colored blue dress. A thick rope bound her to a chair.

He watched her interestedly as her eyelids fluttered open. To his surprise she did not struggle, just attempted to sit up straighter. Her expression was cold, yet it somehow added to her ambiance. Zebediah leaned back in his chair, pressing the tips of his fingers together.
“Princess Mariana, I presume?” She did not answer. He had expected this.
“Well then, if you do not speak, I shall,” Zebediah said. “Very well. Princess, I do not wish to harm you in any way. All I want from you, or your father, is to be granted what I am owed.”
“What is that?” She spoke confidently, though quietly.
“Let’s just say it’s a private matter between your father and myself.” Zebediah touched the line on his face, grimacing.
“My men will find you and kill you,” she said sharply. The man signaled to someone at the door, who pulled it back creakily on its rusty hinges. “You mean these men?”
Marianna turned as best she could to survey her soldiers. Their hands were bound, and they had been robbed of their weapons. Slowly she recollected the forest, the ambush, the darkness…

Zebediah’s voice cut through her thoughts like a knife. “You’re not going anywhere until I receive a summons from the king, in which you will accompany to your kingdom.” He leaned over and reached for a quill. Dousing the tip in ink, he inscribed words onto the parchment. The ink gleamed as he sat back, examining his work. “Oberon, take this.” A man hurried forward and delicately removed the paper from sight.
“Florizel,” he called. Another man came to a halt by the princess’s side. “I’m sure your father has tought you how to defeat soldiers, and I’m sure you could easily overtake mine. I’m sorry, but I can’t have you causing any trouble.” He nodded, and Florizel hit her roughly on the side of her head. Carefully untying her, the man carried her out the door, her head bobbing unconciously over his shoulder. Zebediah ran his fingers over his scar for a third time, staring at the far wall.
“Well met, King Thurio, well met,” he murmurred.
And he too left the room, letting the small patter of rain on the windows begin.

I remember the days when life was simple. I remember the days when you could make friends just by sharing your crayons with someone else. I remember the days when recess was 20 minutes long and scrapes meant you were the toughest of the tough. I remember the days when there was no homework, when math was just 2+2 and writing was just learning how to get your ABC’s on paper. I remember.

I know today that life’s not simple. Now those happy words that we use to call to each other are trodden over by ruder words and thoughts. Now homework is using the Pythagoreon Theorem (what?) and learning the defintions of words like satire and allusion (or blogging). The outside draws our attention, and those minutes of freedom are squashed by the bell, signaling the start of classes again.

Those friends? The ones that you could lose or make by sharing crayons? That, like anything else, is also more complicated. Once you’ve got a good group you’re set for life (during middle school), and it’s tough to let others try and join your clique. Guys bang shoulders and make really gross comments, and girls walk around like a giant perfume cloud and talk amongst themselves.

Now people expect you to be mature. If you get in a fight with a friend, you can’t just sit down and cry. If you don’t pass a class, it’s no one’s fault but yours. Now that we’re older, we have to contend with the level of difficulty we faced in first grade, except what we did then seems like nothing. But we’re still kids. We’re still immature, we still tease, we still have our own little groups.

Growing up is hard. You have acne, sometimes get overemotional, and you have to balance a boy/girlfriend with school. But now you get priviliges, like having a phone or getting a higher allowance. These may not be the greatest years, but they aren’t the worst. Although I bet everyone would feel better if we had milk and cookies once in a while.