Hannah Shull
Bio
Hannah is a 19 year old Army wife. Having only served 1 year in the US Army herself, she married a soldier that she met during her service. Now, she is inspired by her past as she struggles with her history with the military and family.
Stories (3/0)
Silent Night
The last leaf had fallen off the last tree when she woke. The sun was showing bright that day, leaving her long, golden hair glimmering. It had been four days now. And her brother had visited her all four of those days. Her parents refused to see her, ashamed of themselves for letting this happen to her. Her brother was the reason she was there, and even he could swallow his shame and care for his little sister. Twice a day he visited her, once before breakfast, and once after dinner, neither of which she could keep in her stomach either way. Each time he brought her something. She ignored the thought he was only doing this because he felt sorry. She tried to imagine herself before the accident, before she was sent to a hospital to sit in a white bed with white sheets. She tried to imagine herself laughing with her parents and her brother, not being rolled off to some small room once a day at least to be cut open and experimented with. She looked at her teddy bear and imagined herself as that plush toy. She wouldn’t feel pain, she wouldn’t be bedridden. She would be whole again, just like she was before a silver car ran a red light and slammed into her brother’s car. Why did she have to be in that car? Where was that silver car going so fast it just had to run that red light?
By Hannah Shull6 years ago in Families
Sniper
Days are long, nights are cold. At times I find myself numb from the chill, all but my fingers and toes which ache and burn, try as I may to warm my frozen blood. I can’t shake, no matter how hard the wind blows. I can’t shiver, no matter how far the temperature drops. I must stay still. If I move, people will die.
By Hannah Shull6 years ago in Serve
The Man in the Moon
It was the summer of my eighteenth year. Typically, I would spend my days under a large oak tree on the rolling hills of my yard, reading books under the sunny sky or watching clouds go by, picking out the fluffy cat-shaped ones that reminded me of my childhood. That young girl whose only companion was the white furball of a cat or the characters of my books. It was easy for me to connect with fictional people of other worlds, yet it was unimaginable for me to even dream of speaking to others in my own world. I didn't know anything of public schooling, as I had been homeschooled my whole life. The only people I spoke to were the maids and butlers of my homestead and the occasional stranger that asked for directions. I spoke to my father only once, when I was very young, yet I still remember each word that flowed so easily from his mouth. That was the last I saw of him. I was told he went on a business trip, but the maids have their superstitions. Some say he ran off with a girl, others say he abandoned us for the life down south. I didn't know what they meant as a child, but whether I knew or not I didn't believe them. My mother was only photographs and stories to me; I met her only once, when I first saw the light of this world. She died after I was born, and again, the staff had their theories. Theories or not, the situation didn't change, and the cold truth was that I was left to grow up alone. After my mother died, I was given to the head maid, whom I learned to call Cheryl. She took care of me and raised me as her own while my father grieved over his love. As an infant, I was oblivious to my situation. I became very attached to Cheryl and loved her as if she were my mother. But as my mother before her, she died of old age when I was five. Having lost two mothers and not speaking to my father for five years, I shut myself off from everyone else. I mourned Cheryl deeply, and cried out for my father, yet he never came. Until one sunny day, when I was basking in the sun on our Nebraskan Homestead. My father stood over me holding a box. He wore a black suit and tie, his hair combed neatly back, the smell of cologne wafting from him. He handed me the box which contained a white kitten the size of a softball. I held the kitten gently in my arms and looked up at my father, who knelt down to me, and spoke the words that I had waited so desperately for. I still remember that day like it was yesterday. Twelve years later, his words play in my head like a symphony, the only words he ever spoke to me that I hold so dear in my heart. The words that, despite the superstition, gave me hope that my father will return one day and hold his child as gently as she held that little white kitten.
By Hannah Shull6 years ago in Families
