short stories

I've been doing a lot of writing for class, which means the blog gets neglected. I have decided that I reserve the right on this here blog to kill two birds with one stone and post my class work. For English, we do short essays called "miscellaneous writing assignments" that serve the purpose of simply getting the student to write. This week's prompt is as follows:

Write about a time in which you were frightened, shocked, or traumatized. Give details and use present tense.


It is a warm California day toward the end of my 6th grade year. My scrawny legs are walking myself home from the brand new school that I attend in a brand new subdivision where I live. Not much stands out here in cookie-cutter America where the same five floor plans alternate up and down the street. It is oddly quiet today. I'm not walking with friends nor are there many cars driving up and down the main road. Few children, if any, are playing in the park.

I am thinking to myself when I hear a car come up from behind me. It is driving eerily slow. My head stays straight ahead. Only when I see in my peripheral a car coast next to me at the same speed that I am walking, do I turn to face it. Or rather, to face him. He is driving a mini-van, the mark of a hurried soccer mom. However, this van is in no hurry. The windows are down and my heart is beating. He looks at me with beady black eyes, a shaved head, and a goatee. I quickly turn away, my head straight again, determined to will him away. My legs pick up the pace. Without moving my head, my eyes dart in every direction, planning some sort of an escape. Why is it so quiet? Where are all the people? Where is a man out walking his dog? He reaches over to the passenger door and flings it open. In a forceful but controlled voice, he says, "Get in the car bitch!" My scrawny legs are strong now and they run faster than ever before. The door is open and he is still following me. My backpack smacks the top of my butt with ever stride. My chest is tight. My eyes are focused and I'm able to take in a million things at once. I see a small white pick up truck in the distance coming towards us. I yell to it, though I'm sure it can't hear me. He, however, spots it too. Like the coward he is, he squeals away.

I don't stop running. I don't know if he'll circle and come back for me. I don't know how to make my legs stop even if I wanted to. I don't want to go directly home. No one will be there for a few hours and if he follows me, he'll know where I live. I run to the model home office. By this time, I'm having an asthma attack and can't articulate a thing to the employees except that I need water. I am able to spit out the mucus bubble that has formed in my throat and swallow some water. I can't tell if I've had much of a conversation with these people, but before I can be sure I've articulated what happened, I bolt out of there. Now I really just want to call my dad. I run home, looking over my shoulder the whole way. I quickly unlock the door and re-lock it once I'm inside. I call my parents and the cops are at my house before I can even calm down. How tall was he? How much did he weigh? Make, model, license plate number? Bigger than you, smaller than him. Green. KW4. I'm sorry, that's all I remember. My voice cracks.