A Selection of Short Stories

For Creative Writing class in University, we had to brainstorm a number of short stories which we later selected pieces and adapted into other creations. Often inspiration came from real life, or were exactly short snippets of memories that were good stories to share. I wanted to share a few little short paragraph stories I wrote for Creative Writing class with you here:

(Some interesting tree roots, photographed by Julia)

Firewood

              In summer before fifth grade, my family moved out west. We were in campgrounds all across the country and found them to be generally safe places. This is why, when my mother asked my sister or I to fetch the firewood, I volunteered. Shrugging, my mom agreed and gave me five dollars for the wood. I took the main path back to the front office and paid five dollars for the firewood. I waited at the counter a moment and the clerk stared down at me, pointing outside to a shed marked firewood. I scurried off into the open shed and gazed around at the large bags of firewood. I tried to lift one and could not. No smaller bags could be seen. After a moment’s puzzlement that my mother would allow me to come get these heavy bags of wood, I began to roll one. I pushed it inch by inch along the lake shore, wondering if I should abandon it to gather help from my sister. Knowing not to leave merchandise unattended, I continued recklessly. Shoving the bag down the never ending pathway. I approached the hill out of breath, wondering how on earth I would force it up to our campsite. Fortunately, a sturdy camper boy came down and helped my tiny self with these pounds’ worth of wood. My sister came along, searching for me after my long departure and embarrassed, took the wood from the boy. Upon seeing the large bag, and myself safe, my mother broke into a laugh, claiming not to know how much wood the campsite was providing. When we only needed three pieces to last us, we had ten. With amusement, my mother declared that the wood was an excellent price.

(fall leaves on local pond, photographed by Julia)

Pool

              For a few years we had a round pool in our back yard. I spent every free moment in swimming in that pool. When it first went up in spring I would crouch on the ladder, a shivering form, waiting for it to heat up. We measured the correct amount of chemicals to keep it fresh and scooped out any bugs that floated along the surface. It was our haven. Except we missed one-week’s worth of chemicals and putting extra in does not matter once the mistake is made. We could not swim in our disgusting pool for a few weeks and planned to empty it when we had the time to thoroughly scrub it clean. My father called to me one weekend and I emerged from my bedroom to find him at the back door in his swim suit. Without warning, he ran outside and dove into the pool as I called after him. Too late, he stood in the sludgy water, growing less invested in his surprise each second. I grimaced. “I tried to tell you, the water’s all gross. We missed adding the cleaner one week.” Being at work for most of this time, he had been completely unaware of the pool’s disappointing state. I told him to shower through my own laughter as he skated along the bottom to the ladder. He agreed that was the best thing to do.

(photo of me in Penticton, BC years ago, photographed by my mother)

Rockies

              Traveling to visit my sister, Laura, in British Columbia was exciting for the whole family. The drive was insane. Winding around without guard rails in a couple locations. My sister and I gazed out the window at the endless peaks stretching up further than we could see. We had seen the Wolfville ridge, the South mountain, and Blomidon, but none of that could prepare us for the Rockies. They were unbelievable to the point we kept trying to snap pictures of them as we drove. Our parents told us not to waste the entire film on some mountains but we did not feel it was a waste. Their magnificence cannot be imagined. Not even Niagara Falls could compare to the shock factor of the Rocky Mountains.

(A tree around the neighbourhood, not the same tree in story, photographed by Julia)

Cottonwood

              The cottonwood is a broad and lofty tree that’s roots do not go deep. I am not one for cutting down trees, but this weed should not have been planted so close to our house to begin with. My father discovered recently that the tree towering next to our house was the same kind as an acquaintance had fall on their property. Once those trees sucked up all the nutrients in the soil, undermining its stability, a wind storm could knocked it over easily, and we got a lot of windstorms. Acting before mother nature, my father took it upon himself to chop down this tree with a rope saw he crafted. It took him days with my help to saw off the outermost tree limbs. If he had someone his size to help, it could have been done sooner, but with all my weight I could not budge the rope saw. I mostly acted as a retrieval servant for my dad. He threw the rope over the limb and if it missed, I would fetch it. By the time only the trunk remained, I had to return to my job elsewhere and he decided to chop the main mass without my supervision. Now, my dad has done construction and knows how to use tools but sometimes, he lacks just a little patience with his own at home projects. When I returned home to find my mother laughing, I checked outside and found the tree had come down upon our childhood swing set, splitting it in two.

I hope you enjoyed these little glimpses of memories told as hopefully humorous or interesting little paragraph stories. Maybe they will inspire you to write your own short stories. 

-Julia May