The Birdie
Ellen, 3rd grade
I gazed into the distance at the sunset. The sunlight shimmered. The hazy pink and orange sunset looked peaceful with the sun peering through the black branches of the walnut tree. I turned and picked up the racket’s black-leather handle. I tossed the birdie in the air and whoosh, I smacked it with my racket. My dad hit the small red cylinder connected the white web of the birdie. The birdie veered to the right because the breeze came, so I lunged. I didn’t get it, but then when I stopped so fast, with so much force, I sat down hard, slid down the hill and dropped my racket on my way. I grabbed at the long, green blades of grass, they slowed me down, but they did not stop me. Dad came over the hill. I could see he was stifling a laugh. “Dad,” I scolded, playfully. I stood up and brushed off my jeans, and ascended up the hill, picked up my racket and started to play badminton. It was a serene afternoon, I wish could last forever.
