Books Magazine


By Maytpapa

I’ve loved stories ever since I could remember.


(Yes, that IS satin giftwrapping ribbon on my hair. Apparently, my mother thought it was a nice accessory to go with my dress.)

I remember that I looked forward to every Friday in school, when our kindergarten teacher Mrs Soriano would tell us a story right after recess.   But she must have run out of stories one time, because she told the class instead to take a nap.  I was so disappointed.

I must have been quite vocal with my protest, because she asked the class if anyone had a story to tell.  I raised my hand and said I did, so she let me come to the front of the class.

On the spot, made up a story about this poor boy who was forced to steal because his mother was very sick in the hospital.

Try hard as I might now, I cannot remember how I ever ended the story, or whether Mrs Soriano even let me finish telling it.  I also cannot remember whether my classmates liked my story at all.  They must have — after all — preferred to take a nap, instead of listening to my senseless babbling.

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