My mere presence demanded attention - after all, I was the one who got a valentine from Jason, not them. No longer could I only see, not touch a lie was a bullet, and the barrier shattered. With my fabrications, I became the captain of the ship, not just a wistful passer-by, breath fogging the pane of glass that stood between me and the girls I venerated. So incredible they bought into it without a second thought. I nodded as they whispered under their breath how incredible my fable was. “Actually?” the girls on the swings beside me would ask, wide eyes blinking with a childlike naivety. With one flick of my tongue, I was, for all anybody knew, twenty-third in line for the throne of Monaco. The words slipped through my teeth effortlessly. I never had dinner with Katy Perry or lived in Kiev for two months either, but I still told my entire fourth-grade class I did. I never kissed the boy I liked behind the schoolyard fence that one March morning. Then I took a closer look at the small, weary woman with a big smile stretching across her narrow face and a sweater in her hands, happy to be giving me something so nice, and my words died in my throat. And I almost agreed, carelessly, thoughtlessly. Mom was standing in the middle of a high-end store, holding a sweater that looked much too expensive. I was dreading returning to her side, already feeling the secondhand embarrassment that I’d recently discovered came with being with her. With no other options, I had to scour the other stores in the area for her. When I finally made my way to the outlet with grudging steps, I found that Mom wasn’t there. I didn’t want to be seen with her, although there was no one important around to see me anyway. Mumbling I’d meet her at the clothes outlet around the corner, I hurried away to the bathroom. My mom is nothing extraordinary, yet at that moment she stood out because she was just so plain. Her eyes were tired from working long hours to make ends meet and her hair too gray for her age. She wore cheap, ragged clothes with the seams torn, shoes with the soles worn down.
#Short stories to write essays about 8th grade skin
I could see the heavy lines around Mom’s eyes and mouth, etched deep into her skin without luxurious lotions to ease them away. We were in a high-class neighborhood, but as I scrutinized the passers-by and then turned accusing eyes on Mom, I realized for the first time that we didn’t belong there. We lived in a small, overpriced apartment building that hung on to the edge of our county that Mom chose to move to because she knew the schools were good. We were in a high-class neighborhood, I knew that. It got more unbearable with every second until I could deny it no longer I was ashamed of my mother. I tried to push it out, but once it took root it refused to be yanked up and tossed away. Men strode by smelling of sharp cologne, faces clear of wrinkles - wiped away with expensive creams.Īn uneasy feeling started to settle in my chest. Ladies wore five-inch heels that clicked importantly on the floor and bright, elaborate clothing. I remember I was looking up at the people we passed as we walked - at first apathetically, but then more attentively. On that day we strolled down the slippery-slick tiles with soft, inconspicuous steps, peeking at window boutiques in fleeting glances because we both knew we wouldn’t be buying much, like always. It is easy to overlook her in a crowd simply because she is nothing extraordinary to see. We read many, many essays that were primarily reflective but, while these pieces might be well-suited for a college application, they weren’t exactly the short, powerful stories we were looking for in this contest. But we based our criteria on the types of personal narrative essays The New York Times publishes in columns like Lives, Modern Love and Rites of Passage. Judging a contest like this is, of course, subjective, especially with the range of content and styles of writing students submitted. We got pieces that were moving, funny, introspective and honest. We got stories about scoring the winning goal, losing a grandparent, learning to love one’s skin and dealing with mental illness. Well, we received over 8,000 entries from teenagers from around the world. Beyond a caution to write no more than 600 words, our rules were fairly open-ended, and we weren’t sure what we would get. This contest, like every new contest we start, was admittedly a bit of an experiment. In September, we challenged teenagers to write short, powerful stories about meaningful life experiences for our first-ever personal narrative essay contest. 8 about teaching with our Narrative Writing Contest.