Meryam Bnyamin, Period 8, 2/9/22

Meryam Bnyamin 

2/9/22

Blog #3

Craft a piece of fiction that addresses one or more of the following: Literary elements (i.e. structure, tone, diction, mood, irony, and figurative language) to craft a narrative and/or poetry.

This is a really rough draft. I didn’t really have a plot or idea in mind, I just started writing and decided to see where It would go.

My eyes squint open, greeted by the darkness around me. I can feel the pounding of my heart in my whole body, and I become aware of the way I’m shaking. A nightmare, I realize. It’s not real, it never is. My pulse slows and my body calms as I make my way to the kitchen. I watch as my cup slowly fills with water, bringing it to my lips and taking slow sips. My eyes drift to the flashing numbers on the stove, taking note of the; 4:18 AM. I sigh, there’s no point in trying to fall asleep now. I start my morning routine an hour or so early, spacing out and getting lost in my thoughts as I make my coffee and get dressed. I feel like a robot, barely remembering how I made it out of the house and walked to the train stop. Every once in a while, I’m distracted by my reflection in the windows of passing trains. My eyes are sunken in from a lack of sleep, and my coat is doing nothing to keep me warm as I shiver. I try desperately to keep my eyes open, still haunted by the images from my dreams. As a train finally passes, I’m startled by the scene on the platform across from me. A little girl, she can’t be more than 6, is standing alone, leaning over to see something on the track. The platform is completely empty except for her, and I look to where her stare is frozen. There’s a bird on the track, seemingly with an injury since it doesn’t seem to be flying or moving much. My vision darts back to the girl, and my worry grows. Her parents are nowhere to be seen, and at this rate, she might fall. In a spur of the moment, I’m up and running through the station to the other side of the platform. As I make it up there, I breathe out of a sigh of relief to see her still standing. I go to yell, but the sound gets lodged in my throat. It’s probably for the better anyway, I wouldn’t want to frighten her. I approach her slowly, letting out a soft “Hello.”. She perks up, looking over at me, but not replying. 

“What are you looking at over there?”

I keep my voice low.

Again, no reply, but she raises her arm and points to the track where the bird lays. Her nearness to the edge sets a panic in me.

“Why don’t you move back a bit, okay? Maybe sit over there. Where are your parents?”

I motion to the benches in the back, but she simply shakes her head and goes back to looking at the bird. I feel myself grow frustrated, impatience setting in. I was never the best at dealing with children, and this one is particularly stubborn.

“Look, you’re not gonna help that bird by staring at it, now move back before you hurt yourself.”