Sarah Said
Bio
I am a journalism student at Seneca College in Toronto who has a passion for learning, history, and writing. I recently started diving deeper into creative writing and have been enjoying it a lot. I'd love to connect with others!
Stories (6/0)
How my 11-year-old self predicted who I'd become
"Ugh, I don't know," I whispered to myself. I was the only one there who was confused, it seemed. The only kid in grade 5 who didn't have a deep knowing of who I would become, or at least a half-dream of what life could be as an adult. My desperate eyes wandered around the class, searching to absorb anything that could give me the spark that I needed to make a choice. But the idea of deciding which career my future-self would desire and putting it to paper, at that point, felt like picking between which fictional crush I loved more, Edward or Jacob—impossible. I glanced behind me at a boy in glasses, who stuck his tongue out as he confidently drew himself kicking a soccer ball, with the letters "G O A L" spread across. Nope. I then shifted my sight over to a blonde girl in purple, seated next to me, who was humming as she used her felt tip markers to trace cats and dogs around a sketch of her dressed in a doctor's coat. Not quite.
By Sarah Said2 years ago in Confessions
The fatal strike
“Faster, Lady!” She shouted, kicking her worn-out heels into the horse’s sides. The air was beige as the sand lifted off the ground from being hit hard by hooves. It swirled around Rose’s head, like a halo. Still, what she was on her way to do wasn’t good.
By Sarah Said2 years ago in Fiction
Kissing Jacob Jones
It was the evening before the big night and I found myself in there again. The barn, quite cold this late in the evening, was almost ready for the annual Dolesdale Dance. Popcorn streamers, flickering lanterns, and the half-hidden smell of manure filled the wooden space. The empty barrels used for feed were cleared out to make room for the band and finger foods were set to be served at the back corner, where the dogs couldn't reach. And though I'd been inside preparing for hours, I couldn't wait to return the following day at 6:15 p.m. sharp to welcome the whole town myself.
By Sarah Said3 years ago in Fiction
Writing about writing
It wasn’t the chilly air or endless snow falling outside that made me cold. It was the knowing that for however long, I’d be stuck alone once again in this room, in this bed. Though my circumstance was more than most were blessed with, I selfishly wanted out. Regardless, over the last year and a half I'd been told remaining here would keep me safe, inside. But as time slowly went on, I began to doubt which was worse: isolation or infection.
By Sarah Said3 years ago in Confessions
