Editor's note: Each week, the Learning page offers "The Forum," which can feature student work such as short stories, poems or art. The following is a piece of fictional suspense writing.
With every tread taken, I steadily wandered farther and farther from my dwelling I can no longer call my home and into the cold, wet street.
The gloomy, lifeless clouds blanketed the skies leaving them in tears. It was as if God's sadness was seen by all. The cold air crept into my jacket, reaching my chest like an ant creeping up my leg in the summer. The mist in the harsh wind seemed to continuously spit in my face, though I didn't notice it really.
Hatred, it was in every inhale I took in and the fog that was exhaled was the pleasant moments had with my mother that I can no longer distinctly recall. It was useless to withhold the only fond memories of us and depend on them to restrain me from understanding the fact that I can no longer recognize this persecuting, vile woman as anything relevant to a mother. In every dose of air, I realized that.
The woman that strolled me down this very street in the early mornings, or the one that made me smile even in the most anguished events, that was my mother. This woman is not my mother. She was a mere resident, no, a stranger who shared the same dwelling as I.
I could detect the hostility instilled in her bitter voice and even in her pale brown eyes whenever we
The sun climbed over the distant horizon and peered its face through the mountains. There was still a chance.
About the author: Trevor Taylor is an eighth-grader at Reid Middle School in Pittsfield who is interested in creative writing. This story was inspired by an assignment on narrative in teacher Sean Kaptanoglu's writing and composition class.