I'm in an intro to creative writing class this semester.
Below is my first attempt at a short story. It's fiction but draws from real life. I should warn you, it
is not a comedic piece. That aside, I hope some of you enjoy it.
- - - - -
Myra
By: Kyley
Shinead Eagleson
When I was a kid, my
grandma’s attic was the most magical place in the world. It was like
someone took Hogwarts and Narnia and rolled them into one. You could
find anything up there, seriously, anything. Like, you know those
giant condiment jars they put a pump in at school? The ones that
hold an entire gallon of ketchup? Well anyway, Grandma had one of
those full to the brim with buttons. To this day I doubt if any of
them match, but she kept them anyway.
Every day I took two
different busses, the morning one from home to school and the afternoon one
that took me to grandmas. Her house smelled just exactly like you’d
imagine, like baking things and cleaning supplies and cinnamon. Except
for the attic. The attic always smelled like dust and something
else, something that I now know was mothballs. Even today it still
smells like them. Mothballs are the smell of magic; did you know
that?
~ ~ ~
Sometimes we’d play games
like dress-up and grandma would put me in an outfit she wore as a kid. The
clothes were so crazy; I still can’t believe people wore them. The
best though was when we’d do hide-and-seek; the attic was the best place
to play hide-and-seek.
Some days though we would
just sit and read together, those were usually the days when grandma was
tired. I’m not sure if she ever knew that I didn’t mind those days
at all, I loved escaping into the fairytale world just as much as she
did. I wish I could remember for sure whether or not I ever told her
that. I guess it’s not really that important, we both loved the
written word though, Grandma used to say that books were the one thing she’d
always overspend on. She could go years wearing the same old shoes,
but hardly a day passed that she didn’t come home with a new book for one of
us.
I started my collection
when I was 11. I’m 24 now and I have so many books that they
literally line my walls. Dad blames grandma, he always jokes that
she’s the one who infected me. Mom thinks it has something to do
with our eyes though. They look so much alike that she figures they
must work the same way too. That’s why we both love to read. At
least I’ve got that I guess.
~ ~ ~
“Geneva!” my dad yells up
the stairs, “lunch is ready.”
I stand up and swat at my
legs to get the dust off my hands before heading down, two steps at a time,
like I used to. In the cupboard next to the plates I see one of
grandmas “no-no boxes.” Those boxes were like her signature.
They were just old blue
diaper wipe boxes that she’d drawn angry faces on and the words, “no-no,” but
they worked. I always knew to stay out of them because that was
where she kept her medicine. Today though I take the box down and
open it; I see the old bottle of Xanax, pop the top off and take one. I
think she’d be okay with it. I’m pretty sure she would understand.
We eat our sandwiches in
silence; it’s just that no one really feels like talking. When I’m
finished I rinse my plate off and head back up to the attic, ready to go
through more boxes. In a back corner I find a small trunk and open it, it’s got
more books in it. I recognize a few of the titles but most of them
are strange to me. At the bottom of the box I come across one with a
blank cover.
Curious, I open it and
instantly recognize my grandma’s handwriting; I’d know it anywhere, loopy and
carefree, the writing that left me notes saying where the cookies were after
school; it’s dated April 3rd, 1941. Doing the math
quickly I realize it’s from when she was about 16 years old. I pack
up the books in the trunk to take back with me; the journal goes in my pocket
though. About an hour later I can’t stand it anymore so I go
downstairs and get in my car. I crank up the music as high as it
will go, belting out Half Breed by Cher as I drive.
On my way home I pull over
at a secondhand store to pick up an old silver mirror. I got the
idea while I was still up in the attic. After spending a few minuets
looking around, I find the perfect one. It’s small, about the size
of a typical photo frame, with delicate filigree flowers around the
boarder. Totally my grandma’s style, and mine too.
Back at my apartment I put
the mirror next to my favorite chair. Over the next few days I read
through my grandma’s journal, discovering things about her that shock me,
things that sadden me, and things that make me love her even more. I
never knew she had a lover before grandpa, or that her parents were so strict
that they made her give up a child she had before she was married.
I sit in my chair with her
journal and a big mug of tea. Sometimes while I’m reading it all
gets overwhelming so I stop and look up at the mirror. If I look
really closely at my eyes, just for a moment, I can almost pretend she’s still
here.
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