Post by Fern on Jun 22, 2011 20:56:23 GMT -5
This, by the way is a true story.
Prologue--
I sit watching out a window in our class-room. It's an area with a bit of trees where my friends and I gather mulberries in the summer. It's next to a motel which sits right in front of a U-store-it. But it's not the trees in which so many happy and joyful moments have passed. No, I'm looking at something entirely different, for today a lady stands there. We're supposed to be working, but it's so weird to watch. This is because the lady is crying and talking to herself. She keeps raising her hands in odd gestures. A bicycle sits beside her, lain in the dead leaves. My eyes stare so hard I swear I must be boring a hole into the window. Still, despite the eyes staring at her, she's oblivious that we're there. Our teacher goes and pulls down the blind to the window, but you can still see through the thin covering. "Let her be," she tells us. I nod, and look to my friends. They're still staring through the covering. I elbow the closest one lightly, "Common, we have to work on our project." This wakes them up and we all set to work. At some point the police get rid of our unwelcome visitor. They don't really arrest her, but the sirens scare her away. In her haste she leaves the bike.
Every day I look to see if the bike is gone, it never is. We're not allowed back in our lovely trees now. I miss going back there and sometimes we do sneak back, but we're always caught. Maybe there's a reason because when a teacher reluctantly lets us pick mulberries is where our story begins.
Prologue--
I sit watching out a window in our class-room. It's an area with a bit of trees where my friends and I gather mulberries in the summer. It's next to a motel which sits right in front of a U-store-it. But it's not the trees in which so many happy and joyful moments have passed. No, I'm looking at something entirely different, for today a lady stands there. We're supposed to be working, but it's so weird to watch. This is because the lady is crying and talking to herself. She keeps raising her hands in odd gestures. A bicycle sits beside her, lain in the dead leaves. My eyes stare so hard I swear I must be boring a hole into the window. Still, despite the eyes staring at her, she's oblivious that we're there. Our teacher goes and pulls down the blind to the window, but you can still see through the thin covering. "Let her be," she tells us. I nod, and look to my friends. They're still staring through the covering. I elbow the closest one lightly, "Common, we have to work on our project." This wakes them up and we all set to work. At some point the police get rid of our unwelcome visitor. They don't really arrest her, but the sirens scare her away. In her haste she leaves the bike.
Every day I look to see if the bike is gone, it never is. We're not allowed back in our lovely trees now. I miss going back there and sometimes we do sneak back, but we're always caught. Maybe there's a reason because when a teacher reluctantly lets us pick mulberries is where our story begins.
