The Mirror

by Simone Washburn, age 8
The Mirror Simone is in third grade and lives in Brooklyn -- in Park Slope and Red Hook. She's on a swim team and is eight years old. She also plays guitar and likes gymnastics a lot. She likes to write realistic fiction, sometimes with a little bit of magic mixed.

“Hello! My name is Penelope. I am 12 years young. I am an orphan. I have the most boring life on the planet.”

Hello! My name is Penelope. I am 12 years young. I am an orphan. I have the most boring life on the planet. People think it would be fun being an orphan. But it is not fun because there is no one to talk to. The moms and dads always choose the little “cute” kids while us 12-year-olds are starving to death, literally. Also, the room is so dusty it’s hard to even breathe!!!

There are no other 12-year-olds, but there’s a 24-year-old who is so strong it’s scary!

It’s now officially been 10 and a half years since I came here. Crazy, right?! I want to find a way to get a family, not a way to sneak out. I want to look mature and nice at the same time! I walk in front of the broken mirror. While I do a smile, the mirror does big eyes.

“Ahhhhhh!!!” I scream.

“What?” says the mirror.

“You can talk?” I say in a confused voice.

“Yes, yes I can,” the mirror says. “I’m the better you, if you didn’t know.”

“That’s rude!” I say.

“Well, you couldn’t get any worse,” the mirror says.

“I would shatter you if I could,” I say.

“Why can’t you? Are you too shy?” the mirror says.

“Try me,” I say. I put my hand on my hip.

“I would if I could,” the mirror says.

“Why can’t you? Are you too shy?” I say.

“Hey, I said that!” the mirror says.

“Hey, I said that!” I say.

“Hey! Stop copying me!” the mirror says.

“Fine,” I say.

The mirror starts making weird motions. I don’t know what they are. Maybe she’s trying to help me get my parents. Probably not. She starts posing in weird ways. The mirror starts grinning. It’s smiling as well. She puts her hair to the front of her head and looks slightly up.

I start to cringe. I go into the bathroom and look in the mirror that’s not broken. I put my hair to the front and look slightly up.

“I do look mature and nice,” I say. I go back to the mirror. I say thank you.

When I walk away from the mirror, somehow the person’s not there anymore. I shrug. I look out the window, since I’m on the first floor. I put my hair to the front and look slightly up. The person who owns the orphanage rings my door. I open the door, and there they are, my two new parents.

The End


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