"Sharon, honey. You'll be late."
"Okay, ma. I'll be right down in a sec." Yup. That was my mother. A beautiful tall blonde woman in her late 30s.
"Heavens! Where did I drop my shoes?" I exclaimed. Today is supposed to be a literature presentation at school; poetry to be precise. Am I even ready? I'm not sure, but whatever the day throws at me, I'll be ready, arms out to catch it.
"Sharon! You have less than 40 minutes to be at school. I already prepared breakfast, and I left some soup in the fridge. I'll be home a little late today. I love you, cupcake." My mother screamed as she vanished from the house into the morning sun.
"Typical mother. Always working late," I said in a low tone as I smiled.
Yes, my mother. She means the world to me. I didn't even get to know who my father is, and anytime I bring it up, my mother always finds a way to shift the topic. Maybe I'm not old enough to know? Oh, well.
"Ah, there it is!" I exclaimed as I saw my shoe slightly under my bed. "So you were hiding from me all these while, naughty Priscilla," I chuckled.
I always have this habit of giving my belongings names. Call it weird, but I love it.
I really hope my late night would be worth it at the presentation today. I had to come up with something that relates to what's going on in this present times, especially in the country's economy.
I ran down the stairs after quickly putting on my uniform and preparing for school, went to the dining room, had little of the pancakes my mum prepared, and zoomed off to school.
****************************************************
"Sharon, you're up," Mrs. Matilda's voice jerked me back to reality. I had been lost in my thoughts on what storyline to come up with In my next novel. I secretly write novels and keep them in my Google docs, but I'm too nervous or... scared to publish any of them on Wattpad.
"Oh, okay," I said with a mixture of shakiness and firmness in my voice.
"Now tell us, what's the title of your poem going to be?" Mrs. Matilda questioned, as she looked at me in the eyes. I shuddered.
"B... Broken Eco.. nomy." I cleared my throat. "sorry, the title is going to be 'Broken Economy'."
"Okay then. Let's hear it," Mrs. Matilda said in anticipation.
"Here goes," I muttered as I opened my book to read out the poem. I heaved a heavy sigh.
"In a land where coins have lost their song, and markets him a tune so wrong, dreams are priced, but few can pay, hope dissolved with each new day." My confidence rose.
I continued, "the shelves are full, but hands are bare, the cries of hunger fill air. Promises fall like paper rain—a broken Economy, soaked in pain." I finished with a touch of finesse and excitement, and to be honest, I think I did okay.
There was silence at first, then applause followed.
"Wow! Just wow!" Mrs. Matilda said in disbelief. "Did you really write this, Sharon?" She asked.
"Yes, ma'am." I answered, my head gazing at the ground.
"I didn't know you had this much in you." She continued. "After this class, see me in my office."
"Okay, ma. Thank you, ma." I stammered as I walked back to my seat.
The class continued as everybody gave his or her own presentation, and they were all beautiful.
I wonder why Mrs. Matilda wants to see me. Who knows?