9/11 Short Stories

Meanwhile, Hulga lay in the loft of the barn, and due to the lack of vision correction, she struggled to discern the amount of fingers she was raising an arm's length away. Her optical deficiency was beginning to give her a throbbing pain just behind her eyes. The paralyzing ache gave rise to such agony that Hulga had no choice but to shut her eyes and get some rest.

Joe now stands alone looking up at the house, an overnight bag in one hand and his nap sack on a stick in the other... He walks up the old stones steps, noticing pieces crumbling apart... 'This place is old alright... Just what the doctor ordered'

Tim took it from George, took out a small vial, dumped the contents into a syringe, and administered the liquid to the tiger. As he did so, he also undid the clamp on the trap. The trap scratched his finger as the tiger awoke, leapt up, and ran to a nearby river. Just then, the ATVs arrived, but all their drivers saw was an empty trap and a bunch of footprints.

Out of the darkness, rivers of brilliant light and color began to flow all around her, as if a dam holding back a rainbow had miraculously burst. Then she heard the music... a melody so beautiful it tugged at her very soul. It was as if the euphony clothed her in an impenetrable blanket. She felt warm. She felt safe. Uncontrollably, tears welled up, the hymn gripping her heart, and she was forced to squeeze her eyes shut and instinctively her body curled into a protective ball.

Nothing was heard, only the water droplets that drops from the crack ceiling. Making a small puddle on the ground, having mice roaming around the place.

Then he struck again. The dwarf fell forward and landed on his tummy like a turtle on its shell—arms and legs straight out—suspended three feet off the ground by his enormous protrusion.

I walk downstairs in light blue high waisted shorts and a white tank top with cowgirl boots.

Obtrusively,the thunder bellowed outside and the roaring sound filled the small room like rock music to a broken soul.Amongst the thunder, raindrops could be seen ebbing down the windowsill forming undecipherable miniscule shapes and later sinking down in the wall to gather at the edge.

The dust in the air is as dry as a dessert, The rich soil is almost completely destroyed. Nothing grows here anymore,It just dies. But the people here aren't giving up without a Fight. What ever they have to do to beat this time, To beat the dust,But then suddenly a storm hit, one bigger than all the others. It hit the house as we were trying to prepare, But we were too late. The brown dust blew through every hole or crack, It flooded the house in seconds. Ma was in the kitchen trying to breathe clean air, I was trying to block the windows so we can breathe freely again. Pa covered the 6 windows in the house in seconds, but it wasn’t enough. We had to sit the helpless until the storm Stopped. Ma was coughing out dust, just trying to survive.

My mom drove me to school, filling the car with an awkward and unbearable silence. The only noise was her thumb tapping the steering wheel and the annoying clicking of the signals. Since I am on punishment, I'm not allowed to have the luxury of Megan driving me. To make this car ride a little bit less awkward, I turned on the radio and blasted up the volume to the highest notch.

It was sad to see it in this state of disrepair, and she hoped to remedy that soon.

Alma woke up that morning to the sight of gently falling snow outside her bedroom window. Delighted, she saw a blanket of white draped over the neighborhood below, creating a charming winter wonderland scene.

“Why am I here? What happened to me? Who am I?” Everything was happening so fast, It felt like i couldn't breathe. I began to cry.

“MUM! Wait!” I yell. My throat is sore, partly from the yelling, but mostly from the running. The thick, night fog blocked my vision of the path ahead completely, only allowing the occasional glow of the street lamps barely come in sight. I don't remember why I’m running or where I’m headed exactly, just that something is going to happen. Something bad; but what? I trust my instincts to guide me through the maze of eerily empty streets and parked cars. I thought I’d seen something move in the corner of my eye, that’s when I hear the deafening explosion to my right. I cower beneath my arms, ready to anticipate the blazing heat of the supposed flames. I don’t feel anything. I realize why. Towering above me, a pair of worried eyes cautiously

The eyeliner makes the dark circles less pronounced. The lip gloss hides the trembling. The ponytail conceals missing patches of hair. The Abercrombie sweater covers bruises. I might look at bit thinner, so everyone will ask about my new diet. My hair might not shine the way it used to, so the pink ribbon will distract curious eyes. One hour of preparation and I look like myself. One hour of preparation and no one will know. One hour out of 24. Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it, wasting a twenty-fourth of my day on a lie. But then I see my wispy hair and baggy eyes, and I have to do it.