I was walking down the street when I saw my neighbor playing basketball. His name was Jacque and he was my age. At school, people did not like to hang out, or talk to him because he was different. As I walked past him, he asked if I wanted to join him playing basketball. Jacque, the weird one, asked me. I couldn’t say no because I am not like some of my classmates. I, like Jacque, know what it is like being mistreated for not blending in, to the disgust of others. We played for an hour and a half in the cool December air, talking and having a good time. He had a great jump shot, and gave me some tips on my inferior jumpshot. Finally, I said my goodbye and left him to play alone. As I walked home I realized that me and Jacque had a lot in common.


The man owned a small shack around the block. The shack served Indian food, just like how a cafeteria served lunch back in California. From our house, the walk to this place was short but very eventful. First, we walked out of our lane until we saw the main road. Then we had to walk around the block. As we walked out of our lane ,there were about thirty houses, some huge three-storied palaces, and other one-storied humble dwellings. As we walked, the dirt kicked up into the thick air. The wild dogs walked around us, tough and proud. When we walked near them they ran away like we were monsters. Finally, we reached the main road. We walked around the block seeing tens of shops. Hard-working men and women who did so much for so little. We saw the cobbler, the barber, and the police. They were always happy, enjoying life in the face of an infinite number of hardships. When we reached the shop we were in denial. The shop closed down. Just two weeks ago, we were there eating lunch. I have no idea how tough life is.

The buildings stood like giants in a desert. Their lights illuminated the pitch black desert nights. Civilization in the most unlikely of places. The buildings were cool. They were modern, and full of technology I hadn’t heard of. I looked down at my little brother. His eyes were glittering with excitement. He loved to play legos with me and build spaceships and cars. He made some crazy things as a result of his imagination. He loved to be different, he was independent and proud, just like the buildings in the desert.

Hello guys! If you made it this far I applaud you. These are three short pieces of writing inspired by  The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros. The first story was just a random though, while the other two were inspired by my trip to India and UAE back in fifth grade. The giraffe was at a zoo in Ahemdabad, India. Ahemdabad is where I got my inspiration for my second short story.



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