“Oh hi Bobby! That's a pretty flower. Did you come over to give it to me?”
I was shaking in my boots. I never want anyone to see me cry, but as a kid it was just so hard. I held back my tears but I felt betrayed even though she wasn't mine. She wasn't anybody's. That's probably why I loved her so much. She was a free spirit. She wasn't going to be trapped. But I guess that was also the reason why I hated her. Because I knew no matter how much I loved her, no matter how many people tried to come in between us, she would never be mine.
About the Creator
Robbie Bale
Read my content and tip if you can.
Keep reading
More stories from Robbie Bale and writers in Poets and other communities.
wya? (2)
Jane. Jane Smith was her name. She had brown hair, amber skin, and these radiant blue eyes that you can just get lost in when you look into them. And she had a sense of humor like no other. Most girls in my class were all stuck up and acted like they were too good to make a joke. But Jane, she didn't care. She was ready to play football, tag, soccer, you name it. While all the other girls play with the dolls and braid each other's hair. That's what I liked about Jane. She was just like me in a way.
By Robbie Bale7 months ago in Poets
One Minute to Noon
“OK, guys!” I screech over the macaw-like chatter in my sophomore English class. My students are sharing mementos they accumulated during summer vacation. The assignment is to interview each other and write an expository essay about another student’s treasure: Misty’s coquina shells and sand dollars from Florida, Ruth’s two Navajo pottery mugs from New Mexico, Roxy’s perfume from Paris, Kevin’s chocolate from Hershey Pennsylvania, a picador’s sword from a bullfight in San Fermin Spain, where one of my favorite students, Manny Pérez, ran with the bulls at festival.
By Lacy Loar-Gruenler6 days ago in Fiction
Comments
Robbie Bale is not accepting comments at the moment
Want to show your support? Become a pledged subscriber or send them a one-off tip.