By Stradlater
The baseball glove had poems written in green shiny ink. The glove, that old glove belonged to Jose. Jose was a controversial red head who always had a benevolent smile. His hair made him look fierce as a piranha but past that red hair he was the nicest person I ever met, that boy was my brother.
His glove was the same as him, smooth but you could count on it to protect your hand. The glove had poems that show what kind of person he is. I remember how his face lit up when he caught a ball for the first time in a minor league final. That was the start of the great connection with that glove. However, he didn't only care about the glove. He cared of me more than anybody in the whole wide world.
His glove was the same as him, smooth but you could count on it to protect your hand. The glove had poems that show what kind of person he is. I remember how his face lit up when he caught a ball for the first time in a minor league final. That was the start of the great connection with that glove. However, he didn't only care about the glove. He cared of me more than anybody in the whole wide world.
In a hot afternoon I was in the golf field were our family goes. I was practicing my swings in the hot sun. If it got hotter the world will burn in flames and will become a sun. When I turned around I saw Jose sitting next to his bike. He was an indiscreet blob sitting in the grass. Who in the right mind will be out in the sun doing nothing? After a second of turbulence in my mind, everything cleared. He loved me so much he was in the torment of the sun, checking to see if I was fine. The glove was just as him- soft and gentle and you could really trust it.
One day the glove couldn´t catch any other ball. It wasn’t that the symbolic glove had broke- its fancy leather was to tough for that. He was about 16 when he died. I was impressed of how such athletic kid could look so bad. He had been killed by an enormous green monster with teeth sharp as blades, and it was called leukemia. He had come out of the hospital but he had to be taken back to the hospital. A river of tears was forming all over his family because he was always the favorite. I entered my room to cry and is my bed the baseball glove was there. The glove was ever so smooth and had poems in shiny green ink. Maybe such a loving brother died for his brother to get more attention. No, he wouldn’t do that because he will know the tremendous effect he caused in me. The only thing he left me was his love and the glove, his special glove
Harmony... no wait I won't call you that it's too pretty, Harmodio I loved your story but it is suposed to be from Holden's point of view not SL. I loved every single bit of it though.
ResponderEliminaralso comment on me blog please?
ResponderEliminari liked your story it was nice, but i was a bit confused, Jose is supposed to be allie, right? well i think he is supposed to be only 11 when he died, and Jose´s brother is supposed to be older than him, but either way good job!
ResponderEliminarPretty good story. You tried to use complex vocabulary, but sometimes it's better to use simpler words that flow and are used correctly. The Piranha thing is interesting and is a good usage of metaphorical writing. I think you should reconsider his name, I don't think someone like Stradlater would have a brother named Jose.
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