hey here's a story i wrote for school. Tell me what you think and enjoy!!!

Studies show that the average 10 year old will have worn down near to 730 crayons already. Most 2-8 year olds spend an average of about 28 minutes a day coloring. There are about 120 colors in Crayola crayons, the most commonly known crayon and other drawing utensils for kids company, out there, including 23 shades of red, 20 greens, 19 blues, 16 purples, 14 oranges, 11 browns, 8 yellows, 2 grays, 2 coppers, 2 blacks, 1 white, 1 gold and 1 silver. Still, there are only 18 different colored labels. Since 1911, over 100 billion crayons have been made. The question here is why am I stating random pointless facts about writing utensils and why in the world should any human being who has a life care?
Hello, my name is Jackie, and I absolutely hate coloring anything with a passion. I’m 12 years old, just starting the seventh grade, stand about four foot ten with a pixy-cut of dirty blonde hair that was cut by the worst barber on the planet and have subtle blue eyes that are usually starring at the dirt or floor. I don’t like eye contact. It’s too akward.
Why I mentioned my hatred for the use of coloring is the fact that I still can’t seem to color within the borders of any normal picture used for projects in Spanish or English or whatever. They look like something my five year old brother Mikey made when he was half asleep. What’s the point of coloring anyway? If the picture was black and white, maybe it likes being black and white, and doesn’t want some pesky kid adding brown hair and tan skin. Actually, why can’t we just live in a world of black and white? It would make things ten times easier.
Ironically, I come from a family of future Picassos. They all love drawing, it’s basically their life. Even Mikey already can draw better than me! Constantly they’re in the studio they built in the back of our middle class house splashing away at an easel with every color they’ve got. It’s their passion, there dream. I say I’m more of someone who should be on the cover of a newspaper article stating “Whatever happened to the world?”
At the same time, I am almost to the point of being in love with the color purple. Did you know purple was a color that long ago was only allowed to be used by English government it was so precious and special That’s why today purple is always a color associated with royalty. Anytime I see anything purple I go nuts with enthusiasm. Half my four T-shirts are purple along with even a purple pair of pants and purple shorts. I try to wear purple shoes and socks when I can, but my mom says that I look like one giant grape with all the purple I’m wearing, and it’ll only cause the kids at school to laugh at me for it. I honestly do not care, because the kids laugh at me anyway, for many different reasons. I don’t really have any friends, just a few people who say hi in the halls because they feel bad for me. By now I don’t really mind my complete social awkwardness to the world, because I don’t think I should ever have to change myself for the simple fact I like purple and fail at just about everything.
Now, admittedly, I am a little self conscious of what people think of me. I used to wear a bun when my hair was longer, and I’d stick a purple crayon through the center of it. This purple crayon, according to my also extremely creative aunt told me was used for the first and only real drawing I’ve ever made. I actually was attempting to draw the Easter Bunny, and it ended up looking more like one of his Easter eggs. My family has no memories of this, either, since apparently I ripped it up and started crying moments afterwards.
I’ve kept this crayon almost as a symbol of my youth, the days when literally you could walk up to someone and say “will you be my friend?” and they would, the days when I’d eat candy like there was no other food on the planet, and the days when I wouldn’t have to actually hold my bladder. Life was simple, and now this half-used piece of purple wax is all I have left of it. I actually got my haircut because the ridicule at school came to a point where my mom contacted the school for me coming home from school almost in tears daily, so they passed a rule the only things allowed to be worn in hair was “anything that wasn’t a distraction to the learning environment.” Apparently crayons are. Well, it worked. Now I just hold it in my left pocket so I have the constant comfort it’s there without anyone ever having to know. The thing is, as creepy stalker child as this sounds, almost like a friend to me.
This entire thing is being written to tell a story of a day in school. It was Tuesday, September something. Or maybe it was Wednesday, I lose track of these things a lot. Either way it was a day of the week and obviously I had school. Accept today, I also had a project due. This project, you guessed it, involved some coloring. It was a history project for Mrs. Ilosafey, and we had to do a simple drawing of our family, and do a speech with a few fun facts and family history. Of course, I didn’t hear about this until I walked into seventh period, and I had history eighth. It was worth one hundred points. Joy, oh joy!
Seventh was at least just a day we were supposed to be working on our Spanish projects, so I instead desperately tried to figure out a way to get some form or other of a picture together. It didn’t have to be detailed, but not stick figures. That basically left out all my options. I had to think fast. I didn’t have anything to draw with; no pencils, no pens, and no markers. All I had, obviously, was my purple crayon. I pulled it out of my pocket, and Noah, the jerk sitting next to me, turned and announced to the class in an overly projected voice and a cocky smile, “Jackie! You still have that stupid purple crayon?!” Everyone turned. People from my old school looked amused and humored by this, while everyone else looked just confused and oblivious. Half the class laughed, the other half just laughed along assuming it was something to laugh at, so they just went along. My cheeks burned. I hated Noah so much I wished I could just strangle him so tightly I decapitate that too big head of his. Yet somehow the teacher didn’t notice, and went on grading last week’s Spanish quiz. That was a quiz?
I continued on, trying my best to ignore Noah’s annoying comment. I had only notebook paper, but right then that would just have to do. I tore a sheet out quickly, hearing my name whispered multiple times now in the room around me. I ignored it, and quickly scribbled four circles on the paper and named them “Mom, Dad, Mikey, Me.” I did everything I could to draw eyes, ears, and a torso. I had to do my best to draw slowly, too, since I couldn’t really erase anything. I made sure everything was also as symmetrical as possible. It really bugs me when things aren’t. I managed to draw everything and come up with a half decent speech by the time the bell rang. I sighed, and left the room quickly. Time to run off to history.
By the time I got there, I was a minute early, so I took my paper, now crumpled in my hand, and sat uncomfortably in my seat. I prayed desperately that I would maybe not have to present today, so maybe at least I’d get tonight to work something out.
Of course, I got picked first.
My mind chose this time to stop working. I had to work with limited capabilities just to wobble my way out of my desk and all the way to the front of the classroom. My breathing capabilities weren’t too good, either. I took a few magnets, and posted my picture up. “This…is a drawing of my family. This is me…” I pulled a shaking finger up to the scribbled image of me to express this. My stomach knotted. “I was born on…born on the…” I stuttered. I couldn’t think. My head spun faster than the speed of light. The room suddenly felt extremely hot and sweat formed on my forehead. I forgot how to breathe.
“Jackie?” I heard a voice somewhat like Mrs. Ilosafey.
My knees gave in. felling a rush of air suddenly, my head hit made contact with the floor. The next thing I remember is waking up a few minutes later with the entire class huddled around me. Oh, no, I thought in a feeling of complete doom. I fainted.
Basically, since the day was almost over, I just spent the rest of that terrible day in the nurse’s office, waiting for my parents to pick me up. Halfway through ninth period, though, Mrs. Ilosafey came down to check on me. I told her I was fine, and she also handed me a couple pieces of paper. It was a crumpled copy of my family portrait along with a rubric. “C-” was written on the page. You’re lucky you fell unconscious or else this grade would be lower. I’d like to see more effort out of you, Jackie. Was also written along the bottom in her messy handwriting. Wonderful. Just what I need: more criticism.
My mom came for me a half hour later, she came in flustered and in a hurry to make sure I was alright, looking devastated, while I just sat there with a bored expression on my face. It would probably have looked hilarious to anyone who would pass by. I got into the car, and of course, the first thing she asked was, “Why did you faint, darling?”
I shuffled uncomfortably. “I had to do a speech in history. I kind of panicked, I guess…”
I could see her bewildered expression in the rear view mirror. “You never told me you had a speech…”
“Yea, I sort of forgot about it. We also had to do a drawing of our family, but I got a C- on it, so im doing a little better in that class now at least…” I passed the paper to the front, where she took a quick look at the drawing. “You used you’re purple crayon?”
“Uh huh.” I mumbled, focusing all my attention at the world outside the window, doing whatever I could to avoid contact with her. I knew a lecture on responsibility was probably coming now.
She just sat silently for a moment, but then continued. “I do not know why you think you have no artistic talent! This is really a good portrait of our family!”
My eyebrows twisted up in confusion. “This is terrible! I drew it in five minutes and everyone looks like demented dogs!”
Mom only smiled. “Art has no limits. You could draw a line on a piece of paper and call it art. You’re saying it’s bad because you think it’s bad. I think it’s beautiful, and so it’s beautiful. You did a good job. Do not be afraid to try, Jacqueline.”
I only sat there in silence, not quite sure of how to reply to that. The rest of the car ride was in silence, and so was the rest of that night. I spent the whole time just thinking. Thinking about what people were gossiping about in the hallways after I left, what rumors spread, and what people would do or say when I came back tommorow. I was petrified. I could barely eat my own dinner. I wasn’t really the biggest fan of fried pork chops anyway.
Of course, after a restless night’s sleep, tommorow, which was in fact Thursday, had to come. I asked my dad if I could stay home just a few more days to recover, but he and mom both agreed I was just fine. Perfect.
At least they were willing to drive me to school. I tried to keep my head from the window view, looking down at my white shoes. Mom made me no purple today, not wanting me to be teased more than I need to be. I honestly was okay with that. I almost considered not bringing my crayon to school! But I did, so I’d have something to make me feel at least comforted.
We arrived in front of the school, the sun shining as if nothing was wrong at all. My heart was in my throat and I was almost to the point of fainting again. I hopped out the door anyway, praying I wouldn’t trip on the way down. Thankfully I didn’t. Walking to the front door as quietly and discretely as possible, I slipped through the door between a few eighth graders. They thankfully didn’t notice my presence either.
The hallway was pretty quiet at the time, only five or six faces I knew from my classes. No one seemed to recognize me at first, but then a dark-haired boy turned.
“Oh my god! It’s Jackie! How was you’re trip, anyway?” It was Noah.
I didn’t know how to reply. Word’s wouldn’t escape my mouth. I only stood silently. The only thing I could think was wow, nice pun, Noah.
“Be quiet, you lousy! She fainted! You have no right to say anything just because you think you have the right!” A sudden face interjected. I spun. Behind me was a red-haired girl with really straight hair, about my height but with a lot more confidence on her face. My eyes widened. She was standing up for me?
Noah just walked away rolling his eyes. The redhead smiled. “Hey, I’m Carol. Sorry about that. I heard about what happened yesterday! Man, are you okay?”
That concludes my story. Basically, now Carol and I know each other better now and are very close friends. I also have brought my grades up a bit, so things definitely are improving. I learned from this experience that life is basically one box of crayons- some are bright, some are colorful, some are more preferred than others, and some are used to create some of the best works of art known to man while others seem worthless and just used for doodles. But in the end, we all live in the same box, even if we seem different to each other.

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Comment by Sarah on October 13, 2009 at 1:57pm
I was born early for my grade, lol. I am one of the youngest kids.
Comment by Liz Bajjalieh(spock lover) on September 6, 2009 at 10:08pm
Er, I was 14...haha
Comment by Sarah on August 12, 2009 at 6:11pm
Oh god, creative writing as a 12-year-old. I remember that >.br /> But this is really good! I remember I did a poem on the color gold at around that age. It was terrible!
Comment by Liz Bajjalieh(spock lover) on April 8, 2009 at 10:31pm
i got the crayon facts from

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