7-15-22 – 523 Words – 900 pts
Item :: A large stack of paper
I stood there, in the middle of my bedroom. Or, what used to be my bedroom. Now, everything was charred black, and almost everything was unrecognisable. I was still in shock. Only three or so hours ago, I had been sitting right there, at my bedroom desk, doodling in a sketchbook, when I heard a high pitched shrieking from the downstairs level of our house. It took me a few seconds to figure out what it was, and when it did, it felt like my heart had stopped and my breath had gotten caught in my throat. The fire alarm. There was no way. It had to be a test, or just somebody burning something in the oven. But then my instincts and my common sense kicked in. I shot out of my seat and dashed downstairs. I froze. The flames were orange, yellow, red, and a bit of blue as they crawled up the wall opposite to me, in the kitchen. They weren’t blocking my escape route, which was through the front door, but I just couldn’t believe it. Our house was on fire. I then snapped back to reality. Right. The house. On fire. I covered my nose and my mouth with my sleeve and darted towards the kitchen door. I ran down the hallway and out the front door, down the three steps that led up to the porch, and onto the sidewalk. It had been so hot in there that the breeze of cold air reminded me that I needed to do something. I grabbed my phone from my back pocket and dialled 9-1-1.
A mix of emotions swirled around my gut. I swallowed hard to make sure everything stayed down through my tears. A black Mercedes skidded to a stop behind me. I turned around from where I watched our house go up in flames to see my dad, in his business suit, climb out and hurry over to me. He hugged me, and was about to say something when sirens cut through the air. A fire truck pulled up, followed by three more, and an ambulance.
I shook my head. That had only been three hours ago. Remembering my doodles and all my art, I went over to what I believed to be the remnants of my desk and chair. If any of it was there, it was charred and completely unrecognisable. It was all gone. The paintings and drawings that I had worked for months on, the sculptures from art class, all of it. Now it was all ashes.
I left the remnants of our house and walked outside. Not that our house still had a roof. I didn’t know what to do with myself, so I plopped down on the sidewalk and stared at our house.
I didn’t even realise that I had started crying, but the tears were streaming down my face as my nextdoor neighbour, Ashley, walked up. She was a few years older than me, and we had maybe hung out once or twice? She sat down next to me before saying,
“I’m so sorry. I know how terrible it is, and I’m super sorry about all of your art.” I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I offered her a sad smile. She handed me something. I took it, and realised that it was a stack of paper. There was tracing paper, construction paper, printer paper, everything. This time, I managed to say,
“Thank you so much. This definitely helps.”
Item :: A large stack of paper
I stood there, in the middle of my bedroom. Or, what used to be my bedroom. Now, everything was charred black, and almost everything was unrecognisable. I was still in shock. Only three or so hours ago, I had been sitting right there, at my bedroom desk, doodling in a sketchbook, when I heard a high pitched shrieking from the downstairs level of our house. It took me a few seconds to figure out what it was, and when it did, it felt like my heart had stopped and my breath had gotten caught in my throat. The fire alarm. There was no way. It had to be a test, or just somebody burning something in the oven. But then my instincts and my common sense kicked in. I shot out of my seat and dashed downstairs. I froze. The flames were orange, yellow, red, and a bit of blue as they crawled up the wall opposite to me, in the kitchen. They weren’t blocking my escape route, which was through the front door, but I just couldn’t believe it. Our house was on fire. I then snapped back to reality. Right. The house. On fire. I covered my nose and my mouth with my sleeve and darted towards the kitchen door. I ran down the hallway and out the front door, down the three steps that led up to the porch, and onto the sidewalk. It had been so hot in there that the breeze of cold air reminded me that I needed to do something. I grabbed my phone from my back pocket and dialled 9-1-1.
A mix of emotions swirled around my gut. I swallowed hard to make sure everything stayed down through my tears. A black Mercedes skidded to a stop behind me. I turned around from where I watched our house go up in flames to see my dad, in his business suit, climb out and hurry over to me. He hugged me, and was about to say something when sirens cut through the air. A fire truck pulled up, followed by three more, and an ambulance.
I shook my head. That had only been three hours ago. Remembering my doodles and all my art, I went over to what I believed to be the remnants of my desk and chair. If any of it was there, it was charred and completely unrecognisable. It was all gone. The paintings and drawings that I had worked for months on, the sculptures from art class, all of it. Now it was all ashes.
I left the remnants of our house and walked outside. Not that our house still had a roof. I didn’t know what to do with myself, so I plopped down on the sidewalk and stared at our house.
I didn’t even realise that I had started crying, but the tears were streaming down my face as my nextdoor neighbour, Ashley, walked up. She was a few years older than me, and we had maybe hung out once or twice? She sat down next to me before saying,
“I’m so sorry. I know how terrible it is, and I’m super sorry about all of your art.” I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I offered her a sad smile. She handed me something. I took it, and realised that it was a stack of paper. There was tracing paper, construction paper, printer paper, everything. This time, I managed to say,
“Thank you so much. This definitely helps.”