An Analysis of the Story Stream

Write a 9 pages paper on analysis of the story stream. Still, she didn’t care as she took the stick and dug it into the mud of the creek bed, twisting it aimlessly as she watched the rushing water swirl past.His voice was still in her head, that cracking twelve-year-old voice of her brother who never cared how much he hurt her. She rubbed one chubby fist into an eye, refusing to cry, hardening her heart against what she knew was true. She had seen – she had looked inside and had seen, so though hard and cruel, his words had hit her with the weight of them. They pushed down on her shoulders, bending her over her knees as the wetness of the stream soaked up her skirt and into her shoes as the water ran down her little calves and into her socks. She wriggled her toes, feeling them squish inside the shiny patent leather – the shiny patent leather that they only let her wear on special days.Today was not special though. Today was the end of her life, a loss of her childhood marked on a calendar and remembered for the rest of her days. She dug the stick into the creek bed again, twisting it around as she made a deeper hole, a hole that would fill with nothing but water and drown the space that should have been where she thrust in the bark laden stick that dug mercilessly into her hand. She pulled the stick out and tossed it down the way, hearing a splash and closing her eyes as a drop hit her in the temple. She didn’t laugh or smile though, even as the sunlight danced over the water. She didn’t laugh as she saw the squirrels as they ran past, hopping from the ground into a tree, one following the other and jumping to and fro through the branches as if they could almost fly. She barely saw them. She just stared into the hole, waiting for the voices that would come for her.She thought she heard a voice, somewhere off into the distance, calling her name over and over. It sounded like her Aunt Prissy, but she couldn’t be sure. The sound of the creek filled her ears and rushed away all the other sounds of the forest. She blinked, looking to the side, wondering if she should lift her body up, stand tall, and go back, but she couldn’t. She felt safe here, her toes squishing in her shoes, her wet skirt clinging to her legs. She didn’t feel safe back there, no not there with all those people holding their little clear plates filled with tiny sandwiches and spoonfuls of macaroni salad. The little clear cups were filled with foul-smelling liquid that made the breath of the adults stink and their eyes gloss over as they laughed on a day which should have no laughter, then cried with big crocodile tears.

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