Short Stories About Coming Of Age 소설 & 이야기

Being raised in a small- town, people didn't follow the same tenets as big-city dwellers. No one thought too much about a young single mom leaving her five-year-old son alone while she went out to make a living during the summer months when school was out. That kid learned a lot about the streets at an early age. The old guys who hung around at the local bar didn't have any problem teaching him the facts of life. When most kids my age was learning to read and write, I was learning the ins and outs of a hard-knock life.

She lerned how to care for all the animals along with caring for her very own horse Ash loves going out on long trail rides. She would go along with some of the other people and go on weekend long camping trips with their horses. They would get everything set up along with a really good camp fire, the ones with the horses would saddle up and head out for a afternoon ride. When they returned, they get the horses some food and water for the rest of the night. Gathering around the fire, they would all roast some hotdogs while listening to some of the stories the others we're telling. Some were just made up while others were just funny things that happened to them in the past. There is this one

he said suddenly, leaning forward, “why don’t you tell me about yourself? You seem like a bright young man.” I nodded politely, keeping my expression humble. “There’s not much to say. I didn’t grow up with much… I learned early how to survive. As an orphan who never knew his parents. I lived with my grandmother until she passed. After that, I was sent to an orphanage where… things weren’t easy.” I paused, letting my voice drop slightly. “At twelve, I was adopted. But it felt like jumping from the frying pan into the fire. I stayed with my adopted parents until I turned eighteen. That’s what shaped me into who I am today.”

How could I be a warrior when I was the one who always needed rescuing? After my fourteenth birthday, after everything changed, the fantasy stories ended, and I found myself reading through encyclopedias. Reference books. Regional histories. Anything to increase my understanding of the world that I'd never been permitted to see. I became ravenous for information. It was the only glimpse into the lands outside of Snow Pointe I could get.

A young boy, perhaps eight years old, stood nervously near the entrance. "Excuse me..." Cassian smiled kindly. "Can I help you?" The boy clutched a worn notebook against his chest. "My teacher said..." He hesitated. "...that libraries keep stories forever." "They try to." The boy stepped forward. "My grandmother told me stories every night." His smile faded. "She died last winter." Cassian's expression softened. "I'm sorry." The child held out the notebook. "I wrote down every story she ever told me." His voice trembled slightly.

The captain greets us with a nod and disappears below, leaving us alone. Aragorn leads me to a thick white cushions on wide loungers. A low table with chilled white wine, strawberries, a bowl of ice. He pours two glasses, hands me one. “To seeing each other,” he says. I clink. “To that.” We sit side by side, legs dangling, watching the city shrink. He tells me stories about him sneaking out at sixteen to a concert in the old quarter, getting recognized anyway because some girl screamed his name during the encore. I tell him about the time I accidentally dyed an entire batch of white roses blue because I mixed up dye packets. We laugh.

I have a rehearsed story that I tell people and it's that exact story that they'll find out if they decide to do some digging. “There's not much to tell, my name is Natalie Edmund, I'm an only child, I grew up in Denver, I never knew my father and I lost my mother when I just turned eighteen. I went through a rebellious stage after she died and I ended up pregnant and that was the wake up call that I needed. I enrolled back into school, I went to school through my pregnancy and the boys came at the right time, they came at the start of summer break, so I had three months rest and by the time school resumed I was able to enroll them into a training center for young wolves.

So when the first human fell through—tumbled out of a storm into an alley that smelled like night flowers and fried dough—the world held its breath. She didn’t stay long. None of the early ones did. The storms were hungry back then, doors that swung on angry hinges. People slipped in and came out like coins flipped, one side wonder, one side terror. Most went home with a story that got them laughed at or locked up. A few didn’t. A few stayed in memory like a bruise.