This is a short story I wrote for the "2012 Yom Hashoa V'Hagvura Cleveland Commemoration of the Holocaust & Heroism Creative Arts Contest". The theme is "Stories are our Legacy". I just wrote it in a little over an hour, and the word limit was rather, well limiting at only 500 words. I probably could have had around 1000 words, but alas, the limit is 500.
Please tell me what you think. I want to make sure it is as good as possible before sending it in. Oh, and the title isn't concrete or anything, I just thought it up in three seconds. So yeah, feel free to suggest titles.
My earliest memory is of my grandmother telling me stories of her homeland. “Hush, Felix, come and listen,” she would say to me, and I always did. Grandmother had a way of telling stories; her voice was soft and deep, laden with sadness.
Lydia, my younger sister, would sometimes sit with me and listen to grandmother’s stories. While to Lydia the stories were no more real than the fairy tales from one of her books, I often longed to travel to the town of my grandmother’s childhood.
“Why did you ever leave?” I recall asking once, but she never gave me a real answer, only saying she would tell me in time.
“I wish I could go there someday,” I would tell her, but always her only response would be a sad look in her eyes and a small smile on her lips. The reason for this would elude me until I was grown.
About a week after I turned twenty-four, I got a call from my mother. My grandmother had experienced a heart attack, causing her to fall and hit her head. I arrived at the hospital the next day. The nurse kindly escorted me to my grandmother’s room. “Room one twenty-three, here we are,” she said gently, giving me a small smile of sympathy. Inside I found my grandmother lying in her bed, hooked to an IV and her head wrapped in bandages.
“My little Felix, how much you have grown. Come, and listen to an old woman’s story.” I walked over and knelt beside her bed.
“You are grown now; you know what happened during the World War. But you know only what was taught by a book, you know only a little of what there is to learn. Do you remember the stories I told you when you were young? Do you remember the wonder you felt, the desire to see it for yourself?”
“Yes, I remember grandmother.”
“Good boy, I knew you would remember. There is something I left out of my stories, though. I thought you were too young at the time, but now you are grown, and you almost missed out on your only chance to learn what I have to tell you,” she told me. For three hours I sat and listened, my grandmother’s voice just as mesmerizing as it was when I was a child. She told me the stories of her town’s destruction, the death of her father and brother, and of her sister who never had a chance to experience the wonders of life.
Kneeling there, beside my grandmother, I was told the history of my family, my legacy. The stories of an old woman, though seemingly unimportant to anyone else, were what defined me. It is because of her stories that I am who I am, and though they contain sadness and fear, I am proud. I am proud to call the woman, now dead, not only my grandmother, but the bravest person whom I have ever met.
This is a short story I wrote for the "2012 Yom Hashoa V'Hagvura Cleveland Commemoration of the Holocaust & Heroism Creative Arts Contest". The theme is "Stories are our Legacy". I just wrote it in a little over an hour, and the word limit was rather, well limiting at only 500 words. I probably could have had around 1000 words, but alas, the limit is 500.
Please tell me what you think. I want to make sure it is as good as possible before sending it in. Oh, and the title isn't concrete or anything, I just thought it up in three seconds. So yeah, feel free to suggest titles.
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My earliest memory is of my grandmother telling me stories of her homeland. “Hush, Felix, come and listen,” she would say to me, and I always did. Grandmother had a way of telling stories; her voice was soft and deep, laden with sadness.
Lydia, my younger sister, would sometimes sit with me and listen to grandmother’s stories. While to Lydia the stories were no more real than the fairy tales from one of her books, I often longed to travel to the town of my grandmother’s childhood.
“Why did you ever leave?” I recall asking once, but she never gave me a real answer, only saying she would tell me in time.
“I wish I could go there someday,” I would tell her, but always her only response would be a sad look in her eyes and a small smile on her lips. The reason for this would elude me until I was grown.
About a week after I turned twenty-four, I got a call from my mother. My grandmother had experienced a heart attack, causing her to fall and hit her head. I arrived at the hospital the next day. The nurse kindly escorted me to my grandmother’s room. “Room one twenty-three, here we are,” she said gently, giving me a small smile of sympathy. Inside I found my grandmother lying in her bed, hooked to an IV and her head wrapped in bandages.
“My little Felix, how much you have grown. Come, and listen to an old woman’s story.” I walked over and knelt beside her bed.
“You are grown now; you know what happened during the World War. But you know only what was taught by a book, you know only a little of what there is to learn. Do you remember the stories I told you when you were young? Do you remember the wonder you felt, the desire to see it for yourself?”
“Yes, I remember grandmother.”
“Good boy, I knew you would remember. There is something I left out of my stories, though. I thought you were too young at the time, but now you are grown, and you almost missed out on your only chance to learn what I have to tell you,” she told me. For three hours I sat and listened, my grandmother’s voice just as mesmerizing as it was when I was a child. She told me the stories of her town’s destruction, the death of her father and brother, and of her sister who never had a chance to experience the wonders of life.
Kneeling there, beside my grandmother, I was told the history of my family, my legacy. The stories of an old woman, though seemingly unimportant to anyone else, were what defined me. It is because of her stories that I am who I am, and though they contain sadness and fear, I am proud. I am proud to call the woman, now dead, not only my grandmother, but the bravest person whom I have ever met.