You look at her and think, "a girl"
She has the lips and long brown hair
But with time you might begin to notice
That "a girl" is not what's only there.

She dances in the kitchen
to music no one hears
all around her people yelling
filling silence up with tears

She points her bare toes
jumps and leaps and spins
invisible legs stretch out to trip her
to try and break her leafy stems

They do not hear the music
but maybe if they'd listen
they would understand her
and why she dances in the kitchen

How My Reading and Writing Work in Harmony

Okay, so today I'm going to tell all you people how reading has really affected the way I write. I read as much as a write, maybe even more. (Later I will make a post on my top favorite books I have read, but one step at a time.)

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1. Thank the Generations Before Me

First of all, there are a lot of things you can take from other writers. I don't mean literally take, I mean that you can see what other people have done, and you can bend it to fit your writing. I have learned a lot of techniques by doing this, and it really helps you.

But of course, there are those really bad books that you never finish because they're so boring. You can learn what not to do by other writers, too.

2. "Precision of Language!"
Hopefully some of y'all will get that reference up there...

Metaphors, personification, similes, alliteration... reading shows you how to say things in more eloquently. My teacher always told me to show, don't tell. This basically means instead of saying "It was raining," you can say, "Long streams of water ran down the windowpane," or something like that.

You can also get better words for things from books. For instance, "atrocious" is a better word for "bad."

3. It Will Take Forever
So everyone has reread a favorite book. Have you ever noticed that each time you read it, you realize how things are interconnected, how each little detail is related to the main idea? Then you think to yourself, "Wow, this must have taken forever to plan out and write!"

Yeah. It does. You should see how many unfinished stories I have collected over the past year. It's atrocious.

But somehow it teaches you to keep pushing. (I just haven't quite mastered that skill yet, but hey! I'm getting there.) It makes you feel great when you actually do finish something, if you're like me. It also shows you structural things that are very important to your writing.

I hope you liked my second non-writing post! (I will post another one of those soon, by the way.) Thanks for reading!   

The History of Writing (for me, at least.)

I used to hate to write.

There, I said it. I used to think it was one of the most boring things you could do. I liked to read, though, but I guess I thought you had to have no life or you had to be crazy to actually write a book.

I remember in second grade I would ask my dad, "What do you think I'll be when I grow up?" I crossed my fingers and prayed that he would say, "Singer," because apparently, that was what everyone wanted to be at age seven.

Instantly Dad would say writer. My heart would sink and I would scowl and try to tell him to pick something else, but he would just keep on saying the same thing. I tried over and over again to see what he would say. Writer, writer, writer.

All this time, I didn't realize that I was always writing, every day. At school I had a journal, and every morning I would write some little story about a weird, poorly drawn character. The stories were really crazy (and bad) but I really looked forward to making up the stories and sharing them with the class.

All that time, I didn't realize I was a writer. I just looked through all my spiral notebooks from second grade, and I counted three. Three completely full journals. Most people didn't even fill up one.

Some of the entries included things like, "If I could be any animal, I would be a turtle because I like to be slow," and "Did you know that cheese is mold? Well it is! Cheese is rotten milk! I know, right!"

After a while, I started to stray away from the prompts my teacher would put up on the board and I would write my own things, started with little footnotes at the bottom of the page and going on to full on, four page stories. One of the stories was what would happen if I fell out of a plane. (Apparently I sang a song the entire way down and crashed into a tree and also fed on clouds. No idea.)

My biggest story was about a girl named Gloria and her boyfriend named Sylvester. I drew a bunch of pictures of things like Sylvester's Halloween costume and Gloria and Sylvester's wedding day. I wrote long stories every day about the weird pair's crazy adventures, and introduced characters along the way, including a really fat women with facial hair named Hermes.

Everyone in my class loved it when I shared my journal, so I did it every day. I loved it. And I thought I hated it the entire time! I guess thought being a writer meant writing a book, but now I know that's not necessarily true.

Second grade came to an end, and so did my journal. I moved into a new class, leaving all of my stories behind. I started third grade, and at first I hated it. I didn't think my teachers liked me, and I didn't make friends really quick.

I had a Language Arts teacher named Mrs. F. I admit I didn't really like her right off the bat (but trust me, that has changed.) She taught me all this new stuff about writing, things I had never known. That was when I started to like writing. I had another journal that year, but I didn't write in it that much, mostly because we weren't given that much time. The things in there are a bit longer and more complicated. Fourth grade was the same way: I learned so much more and wrote so much more. I got my laptop around that time, and I filled up my Drop Box with tons of different things.

Now here I am, writing nearly every day. Now whenever my Dad says I'll be a writer, I know I will, because that is what I love. Even though it sounds kinda cheesy, I feel like being a writer is who I am.

From the Gloria and Sylvester Chronicles and beyond!

Three Men

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A Necessary Secret

I was supposed to ride the bus, but I didn’t.

I guess Mom was going to kill me, but right now I could care less. I just ­had to know where that Cora girl went every day after school. She always walked towards the forest, slapping away branches to make a path, and then she would disappear behind the tall pine trees.

Nobody lived in the forest. It was way too dense to walk through, much less build a house. When I was little, people used to tell the story of Opal McMillians, an old witch that lived in a treehouse deep in the forest. If you came too close, she would send green vines after you, and then once you were trapped, she would eat you. After I got older, I realized it was just a story to keep kids from touching all the poison ivy, but part of me still believed there was something in there.

Cora had moved to the school in the middle of the year. Nobody knew where she was from because she never talked. Never. Not even to teachers. Cora was as silent as the trees in the forest.

Her hair was so blond, it was almost white. Her eyes were the bluest I had ever seen. She was as skinny as a pencil, and her hands were ice-cold. I knew because once in the lunch-line, her hand had brushed against mine. I cringed, trying not to pull away.

I had watched Cora disappear into the forest since she first came here. I had always wanted to follow her, but had been too scared.

Not of Opal McMillians, of course. Obviously.

But now I couldn’t sleep not knowing where Cora was going every day. I stood at the border of the forest and before I could even tell myself, July Baily, what in tarnation are you doing? I was in, remaking the trail Cora had made not ten minutes before.

Branches clawed at my face and hands. I winced as a twig scratched me above my eyebrow. I tripped over a million roots, and stepped over miles of poison ivy, my eyes fixed on the ground, following the soft footprints of Cora.

I trudged through the bushes for about five minutes before I came to a small clearing. The poison ivy covered the trunks of the trees, reaching up from the ground. I itched just looking at it.

But one tree to the left of me had no ivy. Walking closer, I realized there were steps leading up the rough bark.

Oh my gosh.

I looked up. High in the trees was a small wooden treehouse. A trapdoor was open in the floor.

Oh my gosh.

I froze in fear! Suddenly a head poked through the trapdoor, crazy white hair surrounding it like a halo.

Oh my gosh.

It smiled.

Opal McMillians! I was dead! I screamed and ran towards the center of the clearing, but realized I had no idea which way I had come from! I scrambled in one direction before –

“Wait! Don’t go! Here, I’m coming down!” Opal McMillians yelled from the treehouse. I knew I was a goner – she was coming down to eat me!

Bracing myself for my inevitable demise, Opal McMillian climbed out. She wore a white dress and… pink Vans? Okay, so she had some kind of fashion sense considering she was a witch…

She neared the bottom and turned around. I almost fainted until I realized that Cora was standing in front of me, smiling.

“Oh, hi. Sorry for scaring you.”

“You… you’re not Opal McMillians?” I stammered.

Cora laughed. “What? Who’s that?”

I suddenly felt incredibly stupid. “Oh, nothing,” I said quietly.

Cora scratched her arm. “You’re July, right? I was hoping you’d follow me,” she said. “I’ve noticed you watching me come here for a while now. Well, here it is! Welcome to my treehouse,” she giggled.

“You just found this?” I asked.

Cora nodded. As she climbed up the steps to the treehouse, I guessed she expected me to follow. When we got to the top, I looked around.

The treehouse was small. A table and chair sat in the corner, covered in papers and books. Cora’s backpack lay on the floor. It looked pretty empty, but what amazed me were the keys handing from the ceiling. There were all kinds, big and small. It felt almost fairytale-ish, with the light coming in through the windows. “What’s with all the keys?” I asked, wishing I could swallow back my question.

Cora didn’t seem to notice. “Oh, I collect them,” she answered.

“Why haven’t you told anyone about this?” I asked. “Why don’t you talk at all?”

Cora blushed. “I’m shy. Moving schools was hard. I guess I should talk more. It would be good for me. I just have trouble. Plus, no one ever talks to me,” she said. I felt a pang of regret. What a jerk I was! I never talked to her! “Also, my Mom would keep me from coming here if she knew I went through the forest. She thinks I go to the library every day.” Cora looked at me from the corner of her eye. “It’s a necessary secret,” she said mysteriously.

I laughed. “Well, maybe it can be our necessary secret,” I said.

Cora grinned. We sat in the treehouse together, talking and joking around. Cora was fun, not weird like I had previously thought. She actually made pretty cool kind of friend.

From then on, almost every day after school, Cora and I went to the treehouse. We even hung out sometimes at each other’s houses. Cora started to talk more at school, gaining her new friends, but she still stuck with me. She was different and unique. I liked her a lot.

She was no Opal McMillians, that’s for sure.

A Second Chance

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Galveston is nothing compared to Hawaii.

Hawaii had beautiful blue water and powdery sand. Hawaii had clear, sunny days, just right for seashell hunting along the tide poles. Hawaii had sunbathers and sand castles. Hawaii was perfect. Hawaii was where I wanted to stay.

And now, standing at the edge of the beach in Galveston, Texas, I knew that Hawaii was gone.

Galveston had gray, murky water, the color of dryer lint. I wondered how fish could possibly see in all that sludge, or more importantly, how I could see. I dropped my scuba mask, making a hard clunk on the ground beside me.

I shielded my eyes from the glaring sun, scowling at the pathetic waves rolling in and out over the brown sand. I thought back to how Hawaii had fine white sand as far as the eye could see, sand that was like snow; your foot sank deep into it. Galveston sand was brown, almost green-looking. It was as hard as concrete, and my heels hurt slightly as I walked farther, closer to the middle.

There had to at least be good shells here. I scanned the ground, looking for a spiral shell, perhaps an angel’s wing. But, after a moment of searching, I realized that all the shells were broken, thin as paper.

I felt tears come to my eyes. Hawaii was the only place I felt comfortable, and that’s saying a lot since I had been to practically every place in the world. My father is a marine biologist, so we had to constantly move along practically every coastline. I’d been to Japan, Florida, Maine, England, and a million other random places, including Hawaii. Out of every place, Hawaii had been my favorite. To me, Hawaii was home.

I turned from the beach and up the wooden bridge to our small beach house. I was angry now, fiery as a pepper. I ran up the steps and to the porch, where my sister Indie was sitting on the rocking chair, staring intently at the “ocean.”

“No Hawaii, isn’t it?” she asked calmly, not taking a break from her rhythmic rocking.

I squeezed my fists. “I hate it here. I hate everything.” I didn’t say any more, worried I’d cry right then and there.

“Owen, you know how it is, Daddy’s job and all…” Indie started.

“I know. ‘It’s only temporary,’ they say. Well, I’m sick of temporary. I’m sick of moving. I just want to stay in one place. I want friends, and school, and a normal life. I wish Dad had a normal job. I hate it here,” I said, my anger boiling over. “I wish we were back in Hawaii. I wish we didn’t move. I hate Galveston. I mean, what’s the point! Why would Daddy let us love something and then take it away in less than a week? Why? I hate him!”

Indie stopped rocking. She was quiet for a few minutes, which was probably a good thing because I would’ve screamed if she had said anymore. I stared at the beach, hoping that the ugly water and sand could see me right now and would see the burning hatred in my eyes.

“Owen,” Indie said quietly, breaking the silence. “Did you know that when we first moved to Hawaii, you hated it, too?”

I turned my head away from the ocean and towards her. “What? I love Hawaii.” I didn’t remember ever not liking it. I almost felt mad at her for thinking that.

“When we first moved there, almost two years ago, you hated it. You hated the beach, and every time we would go down there, you would stare at the water and scream, afraid the sharks were going to get you. You would stay in your room all day. Mom and Dad almost considered moving again. But then you started to like it, so we stayed.”

I unclenched my fists, feeling less angry. I hated Hawaii? Did I hate it as much as I hate Galveston?

“Really?” I asked.

Indie nodded and started rocking again. “So, Owen. If you once hated Hawaii so much, don’t you think you could give Galveston a chance?”

She slid her sunglasses on and continued staring at the ocean, as calm as before. I watched my sister for a moment, and then walked slowly back towards the beach. Maybe she was right. Maybe I did need to give Galveston a second chance. Sure, it might be harder than Hawaii, and sure, Hawaii was obviously better, but maybe I could like Galveston too.

I glanced at the sand that I had once stared at with such strong loathing and realized that it would be pretty good sand-castle material. The broken shells would make pretty cool decorations, too. I walked to the water’s edge and watched it rush over my toes. A small minnow darted past my ankles, and I smiled as it tickled the outside of my foot.

Without hesitation, I began to run farther into the waves, laughing. I was too excited to notice how cold it was, how I was soaked to the bone. I got to waist deep before finally stopping. The water was fun, despite its opacity. I have to admit, I was happy. I suddenly didn’t hate the water or the sand. The blazing sun didn’t bother me as much, and the seaweed wrapping around my arms wasn’t as gross looking. Indie was right about Galveston.

I gave it a second chance.


Eva's note:

If you haven't been to Galveston, the description above is pretty much spot-on. Galveston is pretty lame compared to Hawaii, and I haven't even been to Hawaii! I liked the idea of using this contrast in this story because I thought about how people in "pretty beaches" (sorry Galveston) thought about... well.

I was going to use this story in a contest, but ended up using other stories.

I hope you liked!

Her

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It was as if the world was spinning too fast, spinning too fast to make sure that the things, the people on it were at the same pace. The world was like a train, and she was like a piece of paper, lost in the drift, not quite staying along with everyone and everything, levitating above the ground and just floating.

She was floating.

The people were moving too fast, rushing from place to place, determined to get what they wanted, thinking of no one but themselves. But she wasn’t. She was stuck in a beautiful place.

And she was colorful.

In the world of blacks and whites, and the grays in between, she was the color in the middle. She was the garden, the museum, the creature. People gravitated towards her; she was the source of happiness in the world.

She stood at the bus stop, clutching a notebook in one hand, staring at herself in a puddle, letting the rain wash her. She held an umbrella, but not for her head. She grasped it in front of her, covering her hands and notebook saying, "Wet hands ruin pages".

Of course, the world didn’t seem to notice her. Her bright blue dress stood out in the crowd of stormy sky, but nobody took a moment to look. Her brown hair curled around her chin, cut short because long hair only slowed her down. Her red lips were smiling, her eyelashes catching water droplets.

She missed two buses just standing there. Rain poured all around her, waves of mist spraying around her ankles. Streams of water drained down her face, running down her neck, her arms. She stood there colorfully, thinking colorful thoughts, lost in a world.

The rain decelerated, and then ceased. And people slowed down, and the sun shone. Faces looked towards the sky, letting the heat dry their faces. Almost. The world almost caught up with her. Time almost refastened itself

But as soon as it began, it was over. People realized they had somewhere to be, something to do. The street emptied slowly, buses carrying the people away.

But she still stood there, holding her umbrella. Her head was up now. She looked around thoughtfully and slowly. She smiled to herself and closed her umbrella. It seemed she’d escaped. She wasn’t caught in the drift anymore, she wasn’t floating.

She was flying.

Her blue dress dragged on the ground behind her as she walked away, smiling at people who didn’t, who couldn’t, see her. She walked into a world that wasn’t full of foolish people, a world that wasn’t dragging her down. She walked into a world of her.


Eva's note:
Personally, this is one of my favorite shorter stories that I have written. The idea came to me kind of suddenly, but I think it was sitting in the back of my mind for a while.

The inspiration for this piece was from a car ride downtown. I only saw it for a split second: a women at a bus stop, wearing a bright colored dress, looking as if she was about to go somewhere nice. All around her were people in neutral clothing, so she stood out. It was weirdly beautiful, and instantly I started thinking up story ideas.

I hope you liked!

The Mystery of Roanoke by Eva

Eleanor Dare watched her father’s ship sail into the horizon, the sails flapping gently in the wind. Her daughter, Virginia, cooed in her arms, her tiny hands waving around aimlessly in the air. Virginia was just over a week old, and Eleanor felt that her father was leaving too soon after her birth, but the colony needed supplies.
Eleanor smiled down at Virginia. Her chubby cheeks were red from the slowly-chilling weather, and Eleanor’s hands felt numb inside of her baby’s blankets. She trudged back up the beach to the colony.
Eleanor’s father, John White, was appointed governor of the Roanoke colony by Sir Walter Raleigh, and he was very proud of his rank. In 1587, Eleanor’s father led a group of 117 people to the New World. He was ordered to lead the colony and keep it running smoothly, so of course he knew it was his responsibility to return to England when the small colony ran low on supplies. But Eleanor couldn’t help thinking if only it had been later after Virginia was born.
Virginia was born a very healthy baby, and was nailed with a title she would carry for the rest of her life: the first baby born in the New World.
Eleanor was a proud mother. She knew long before the colony reached the New World that she would be the mother of an important baby in English history.
By the time Eleanor reached the family’s one-roomed cabin, Virginia was beginning to grow heavy in her arms. Eleanor’s husband, Ananias, sat outside the door waiting for her. When he saw Eleanor, he smiled and said, “Has your father left the docks yet?”
Eleanor looked down at sleeping Virginia in her arms. “Yes. I miss him already,” she answered.
Ananias stood up and walked over to his wife. “Don’t worry. He’ll be back soon,” he said, knowing Eleanor longed for her father.
Eleanor nodded and walked into the doorway of the house. Her skirt tracked sand from the beach and Eleanor sighed knowing she would have to wash it again. She put Virginia in her small crib that her father had made her before he had left. “A little going away present,” he had said. “So you won’t miss me too much.”
Virginia wrapped her tiny hands around the bars of the crib and drooled. Eleanor grabbed her apron and wiped her chin. She was very tired and she knew she needed to sleep. She sat down on the bed she shared with Ananias and fell into a hard, uncomfortable sleep.
Days passed. It had been almost three years since Eleanor had seen her father. It was as of she had forgotten his voice. He seemed so far away.
One morning, Eleanor was feeling particularly sad. There was small breakfast for the people of the colony. Eleanor gritted her teeth as people complained about the food shortage and how they blamed her father for not being prepared. “Maybe he wanted this to happen!” One colonist exclaimed. Eleanor knew him by the name of William. “We should have never boarded that ship! And I’ll bet you anything he purposely attacked those filthy savages!”
Eleanor glared at William, and he stopped talking. She stood on top of a tree stump, one that the people had used to build their houses.
“I know times are tough, but you cannot blame my father for this. We will have all the things we need soon. For now, we need to make the best of what we have.”
William rolled his eyes. Ananias glared.
Before the colony had arrived in the New World, fifteen Englishmen had come to map the land and prepare it for the colony came. When Eleanor and the rest of the people had finally set foot on the land, all fifteen men were gone; bones left half-buried in their place.
Eleanor’s father was enraged. He knew that the native savages had killed them, and he decided to approach the nearest tribe: The Croatoans. The chief, who was called Chief Manteo, told Eleanor’s father, John White, that the Secotan, Aquascogoc, and Dasamongueponke warriors had attacked the men and killed them. After Eleanor’s father received this news, he led a few of his men out to launch an attack on the Dasamongueponke Indians, but soon realized their big mistake: They had accidently mistaken the Dasamongueponke Indians for the Croatoans, and now the colony lived in constant fear of attack by the once-friendly tribe.
Eleanor had liked the Croatoan’s; they had come to the settlement once before. They were very friendly, and they seemed very much unlike the stories of the gruesome and violent animals that other colonies had ran into and failed because of. But despite their mischaracterized personalities, Eleanor still knew of the long bows they carried and the sharp knifes they held. They had to be used for something other than hunting.
Eleanor’s father had told the colony not to worry, that the Indians were nothing to be afraid of, but Eleanor and the rest of the colony were still wary even though the Indians had showed no sign of hostility towards the people.
Eleanor missed her father. He was strong man, full of hope for the colony. Eleanor hoped that he was right, though, as sometimes optimism can bring false hope.
Later that night, Eleanor sat on her bed in the cabin. Virginia slept in her crib. Ananias lay on the bed, asleep from all the day’s work. Eleanor, no matter how hard she tried, couldn’t sleep. Her stomach sat empty, her longing for her father over-whelming. She blew out her candle and put her head on the pillow. The straw mattress felt scratchy on her skin.
Suddenly a scream rose from a neighboring cabin. Eleanor Dare jumped up. She sat in silence for a second. She knew she hadn’t been dreaming. Eleanor took deep breaths and listened. Footsteps stirred the leaves around the cabin.
Another scream rang out, but was cut off. Fear enveloped Eleanor, her heart beat fast. She turned to wake Ananias, but heard the door creak open a sliver. Eleanor ran to the crib.
“Who are you!?” Eleanor screamed. More yelling voices could be heard around the settlement and more footsteps could be heard from outside. The door creaked open some more, and Eleanor braced herself for the worst.
To Eleanor’s relief, one of Eleanor’s neighbors, the one who had complained earlier that day, stood in the door way. He ran in, breathing heavily.
“What’s going on, William?” Eleanor whispered.
“We’re under attack.”
Dread filled Eleanor’s empty stomach. She felt time freeze. She wanted her father. He would know what to do. He would save them all. But he wasn’t here, Eleanor thought with a sickening realization.
William grabbed Eleanor’s shoulders. “You’ve got to get out of here if you want to live!”
When Eleanor didn’t respond, William slapped her hard across the face. Eleanor lifted her hand to her face. William pulled her arm. “We’re going to die! Hurry!”
“Ananias!” Eleanor exclaimed. She ran over to the side of his bed and pushed him. He sat up and stared at Eleanor before seeing the terror in her eyes, as they seemed to say it all. He grabbed Virginia from her crib and rushed outside, Eleanor trailing not far behind.
Outside was total chaos. People were screaming left and right. Fire from torches burned on the rooftops and children clung to their mothers. Eleanor ran beside Ananias, who was clutching wailing Virginia tightly in his arms.
Then Eleanor saw them: tall dark-skinned men with long bows knocking against their backs as they ran. Their knives were used, as Eleanor could see, and she stifled a scream. They hid in the shadows like swirling darkness, and Eleanor felt like she was re-living her worst nightmare.
As Eleanor and Ananias ran, tears continued to flow down Eleanor’s face. Once they had reached the borders of the settlement, Eleanor saw one of the colonist drag his knife against the tall, wooden poles that surrounded the colony. CROATOAN, he wrote in large slanted letters.
So her father would know.
As Eleanor ran into the forest, she knew that when her father returned, he would not know what happened. What use did the word CROATOAN do for him? She knew she had to try to get her father to understand. She had to lead him to her.
The next morning, sunlight crept through the branches of the tall trees within the forest. Eleanor woke up in the middle of a clearing. She didn’t remember falling asleep. She must have collapsed from running too long.
As her vision cleared, Eleanor Dare realized that she was all alone. None of her colony could be seen, but more importantly her family.
“ANANIAS!” Eleanor screamed. “VIRGINIA!”
Eleanor felt her eyes grow hot. She sat up, pulling herself up, but quickly fell down in pain. Her ankle was twisted at a funny angle, and Eleanor cursed under her breath.
“Ananias!”
No one answered in the bushes. Eleanor dragged herself forward, flinching every time her foot hit a rock. She moved a few feet in one hour, but eventually gave up. Crying, she lay down in the leaves and fell asleep.
When her eyes opened again, she remembered how the words CROATOAN were etched into her mind. She thought for a while about what she could do so her father would find her.
She must not have run too far from the camp. She knew that when her father landed he would look in a wide circle around the settlement, a few miles at the least. She had to leave a clue… something so that he would know where to come find her.
Suddenly Eleanor had an idea. She found a large rock from by a stream and another smaller sharp rock nearby. She used the small rock to press letters into the soft stone. When she was done she admired her work. The first Dare Stone: a gravestone for her lost husband and daughter.
Ananias Dare &
Virginia Went Hence
Unto Heaven 1591
Anye Englishman Shew
John White Govr Via
Eleanor’s ankle became better after a few days after she found some herbs that seemed to numb the pain. When the Indians had come to the settlement the first time, Eleanor watched a young girl place some of the same herb onto a small boy’s bent fingers. It seemed to help, so Eleanor was relieved when she found the prickly plant near the riverbed.
Soon she could walk, and she walked a few miles west. Every once in a while, she placed another stone so her father would find her. She followed the river, taking breaks every few hours. It seemed the particular soft stone was plentiful near the river, so Eleanor had a lot of material to work with.
Time passed slowly. Eleanor’s father had still not returned, or at least ventured far enough to find her. Eleanor felt her hope slip away like sand in the palm.
One day, Eleanor was finishing up one of her stones. She brushed her hand on the surface of the rock. Behind her, a twig snapped. “Hello?” Eleanor called out. “Father?”
Eleanor’s heart lifted. Could it be? She hadn’t seen a single person for over a year. She wished with all her heart that the sound had been a loving soul that could lead her home. But alas, she was an optimist like her father, and now she had brought herself false hope.
An Indian appeared out of the brush. Eleanor jumped. All around her, more men appeared, each with a bow as tall as Eleanor. They spoke to each other in fast, hushed tones, as if they were worried Eleanor could understand them. The first Indian raised his bow. More followed his lead until Eleanor felt like the whole world was pointing sharp, accusing fingers in her direction.
“Please,” Eleanor begged. She hoped that the Indians were Croatoans, and that maybe they remembered her and had some sympathy, but she knew that she was too far to still be in their territory. “I need to find my father. I can’t die! Please!”
The Indian pulled his bow back despite Eleanor’s pleads. Eleanor knew that this was the end of her story.
John White paced on the deck of his ship. It had been a rough journey from England. Storms came often and water ran low. But the worst thing about the journey was that John missed his daughter – beautiful Eleanor – and his grand-daughter, Virginia.
His heart ached terribly for his family. It had been three years since he’d left them. He hadn’t intended for him to be away so long, but war in England made it incredibly hard for him to set sail.
John thought about the last time he had seen Eleanor. She was standing on the beach. He had hugged her. John remembered the feelings that that hug would be the last, and it had haunted him all the way back to his homeland.
But now John was too excited to worry about such things. They had been sailing for almost three months now, and according to his calculations, they should be finding land any day now.
Suddenly from above, a man’s voice echoed in the morning air. “LAND HO!”
John’s heart jumped. In the distance was a small strip of land, maybe a mile away. He was so close, so close to what he loved most.
When the ship had moved a little closer to the island, the crew began to lower a lifeboat down the side of the ship. It landed in the water with a satisfying splash.
“Okay, men. Today we shall see our loved ones again. We shall see our home again. We shall see all that we have missed! I will bring five men including me to see the island first and arrange for more lifeboats. Who will go with me?”
Men cheered and waved arms. William picked four men and they climbed into the boat.
Once they had reached the island, John jumped out before anyone else. He ran up the beach, ignoring the sand in his boots. He ran through brush and trees. By the time he got to the colony, he was out of breath, sweat dripping down his face. “Eleanor! My beautiful Eleanor! I have returned!”
No one answered. John walked into the village and looked around. His heart fell to his feet.
Half the houses were burned to the ground and all were empty. Not a soul was in sight, but most importantly his beloved Eleanor. John couldn’t see anything anymore – the tears mixed with the sand on his face.
John stumbled to Eleanor’s house, or what remained of it. Half of it was completely gone, the other half burned. In the corner lay the blackened remains of the crib that John had given to his daughter before he had left.
So she wouldn’t miss him so much.
John stared at the crib. He knew right then that he would never see Eleanor again. And as he stared at the ruined house, John knew that his entire world had burned away.
John turned. There was no reason to stay in the wretched place. He walked toward the beach wen something caught his eye – there, on the tall wooden poles that had bordered the settlement, were the words CROATOAN, written in jagged letters. John leaned against the poles and traced the letters with his hand. The Croatoans had done this, he thought. The Croatoans killed my daughter.
And with that, John White returned to England.
(This was a class assignment, which is why she finished it. After I read it, I gasped and said, You killed them!! She answered, Yep. I killed 'em all.)