As a Kid

As a kid I loved shooting rubber bands and spit balls at people. I thought it was funny to tell other kids they had spiders in their hair. I liked calling random people on the phone and asking if the refrigerator was running. That goofy sense of humor went away. Or maybe it turned into a love of puns, obscure literary references, and strange science stories.

Please use the open space below to share your first 50 words on the topic “as a kid.”


Author: Virginia DeBolt

Writer and teacher who writes blogs about web education, writing practice, and pop culture.

3 thoughts on “As a Kid”

  1. I used to enjoy weekend stay overs at my godmother’s house as a kid. It was the place where I’d see all my male cousins. I was a real tomboy then and remember being under the watchful eye of my great grandmother because I was always the one to come up with all the mischievous ideas. What wonderful memories I hold from those carefree times…

  2. As a kid she cried a lot when alone. She had been told that her father abandoned the family the first time he saw her as a newborn infant in the hospital. Her mother indicated he thought all babies were ugly. Over the early years he would come and go in attempts to reconcile with her mother. Never successful, he finally stopped trying and lived in Florida permanently. She would receive brief notes from him and usually ten dollars for her birthday and Christmas. She wished she could use the money to buy something that she wasn’t allowed by her mother. Her cousin, Barbara, who lived next door took horseback riding lessons, swimming lessons ….. all kinds of lessons. Barbara was an only child with a real father who was at home. She had to wear her next door cousin’s hand me downs. Her cousin was mean. She was only a few months older but she was a nasty kid. She would sing song taunting her saying she didn’t have a father. As a kid she finally took vengeance. She shoved Barbara down a flight of stairs while being taunted once too many. As a kid, it was a very painful life.

  3. As a kid ,we have terrific imaginations .
    I , for one , used to imagine teams of small people sitting inside the radio , singing songs , playing music. Another popular thing imagined was sprouting of orange seedlings from one’s ears , if one swallowed orange seeds whole (convinced by wicked cousins , no doubt). Then , of course , came demons and ghosts and spirits and all other things that go bump in the night . Specially when one is lying wide awake , in the bed , long after your sibling has started snoring in the neighbouring bed .

    A garden shed on my grandpa’s property had an ancient , weatherbeaten door , made of crude wood . There were black fungus(or blackened , dried moss) streaks on the door. The rest of the door bleached white by sun .

    It held endless fascination for me . The black streaks followed the grain of the wood , mostly . Occasionally they didn’t . It would turn into a procession of a king , riding an elephant, with lot of subjects following, on foot. The elephant even had a “howdah”, complete with a fly-whisk wielder and mahout . Sometimes , it would be a house on fire , with people running helter-skelter , calling for help. At others , it was a parade of pretty models , wearing stilettos and flouncy gowns , holding Chinese paper fans , with elaborate , feathered head-dresses.

    That door was a source of endless joy to me , and chagrin to the rest . “There she goes , staring at the damn door “.

    Cousins would come , stare , cock their heads , and tried , patiently , to hear me . All they could see was a door in need of paint .
    One spiteful summer , someone actually painted it , a dark , ugly , shiny brown . I stopped staring at it , and people stopped whispering at my back.

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