This is a short story that I wrote when I was in Grade 8 for the Spring Journal, a local literary journal my school participated in at the time. I won what is called the Jean Neville Webster Memorial Award for this piece. The award is presented to the short story or poem that received the most points from the judges over all the participants in the journal. I thought this was a great honour because there were over 20 schools participating at the time.
Well enough of the intro let's get to the story, right? Okay here you go:
I pull my canoe up on the sandy shore of the cove. A trail that I use, oh so many times, makes a groove in the earthy sand. I sit on a smooth greyish rock that protrudes out of the ground like an old weathered tombstone. Some people might think that this is a spooky place, but I like it. It's my place. As I sit on my Thinking Rock, that's what I call it, I look around absorbing the seen before me.
The dead trees are all bent and crooked, their dying bark peeling off their trunks like a snake shedding its old skin. The squirrels jump from branch to branch, sprinkling drops of water on the ground from the rain storm the night before. Birds chirping and singing with all their might, make it sound like music from a radio station. This is my get-away place. My special place where nobody yells, nobody hogs the phone, nobody forgets I'm around; this is a place where everyone is aware of me.
The tadpoles scatter as I walk to the water. I pull of my socks and shoes and roll up my jeans. I slowly wade in. The icy water creeps up my legs, making them feel cool and refreshed. Ther sand at the bottom of the little cove squishes between my toes; the plants sway and tickle my ankles like the feathers of a bird. Just then, I see my heron. It flies down, wings spread wide and then lands in the water about twenty feet away, folding its wings underneath itself. I stay still and watch as it stalks its prey. The heron stands as still as a statue until it picks the precise moment to plunge its long beak in the water and pluck its startled lunch out of its swampy surroundings. The heron's head darts around and catches my eye. I stare into his greyish-blue eyes and hold my breath. We stare at each other for a good minute or so. I slowly exhale trying not to disturb the blue heron. Suddenly, its huge wings unfold and the heron glides out of the water, then soars out of my sight. I back out of the water and lie on my Thinking Rock. I stretch my legs out into the stream of light that seeps between the roof of the trees.
I must have dozed off. I wake up looking into the sunlight almost fifteen minutes later. I quickly pull on my socks and lace up my shoes. I jump into my canoe, making it rock violently.
"Bye!" I yell. I paddle away from my little cove, sending ripples against the shore. The birds chirping in the distance, as if answering, are the last sounds i hear from my special place, as I head home.