Stealing In Americ A Narrative Fiction

I rocked gently back and forth on the park swing, my brother Ryan staring up at the sky next to me. None of the other kids would come near us. They pointed and whispered in their groups, giving us looks of disgust. “Come on, Ryan,” I said, tired of the parent pulling their children closer to themselves as we passed by, “let’s go home.”
We walked down an old dirt path that led behind the trees and kicked a rock along the way. I was confused by everyone around me. We weren’t dangerous, we had lived here in America all of our lives. We had nothing to do with the bombing, we didn’t help at all. Ryan stole the rock I was kicking. “Oh, look at that steal!” he shouted as he kicked the rock further down the path. I wish I could be as oblivious as he was. A slight breeze blew in then, bringing along with it a hint of potstickers. We were almost home. …show more content…
“Fine, I guess. We almo-” I started to reply, but was cut off by Ryan bursting through the kitchen, slipping on some water on the floor. He landed with a big thud. Mom quickly helped him up and sternly told him not to run around the house anymore. I gave up on trying to tell Mom about my day. I opened to the back door and walked out. Despite the sunny day, it was freezing. Not wanting to go back inside, I paced back and forth by the small garden box my mom planted the bamboo lilies that reminded her of home. Maybe the cold could numb my thoughts. I tried to forget everything, tried to clear my mind. How could so many horrible things happen in just a few months? Then Mom stuck her head out the door and started yell, “Hey! What are you doing out there without a jacket? Get back inside, or you’ll get sick!” I dragged myself inside, trying to leave my unwanted thoughts in the unwanted