See, when I started writing it originally, I just kind of wentfor it without analyzing what I was doing, and I'm starting to think it mightbe better in a different point of view. Your opinion would really help meout.
I just need to knowwhich version you:
A) like better, and
B) think has more personality.
They maybe the same, and they may not. Either way, I'd love your input.
Thanks for traveling!Leave your votes in the comments below!
I hate chores.
I’ve tried to convince my parents many times that my efforts aren’t needed; there are so many workers on the farm I shouldn’t have to do much, if anything. Unfortunately those conversations always end the same way: “Everyone pulls their own weight, Kolina.” I’ve never understood that phrase. As I throw last night’s dinner scraps to the pigs however, I can’t help but think cynically that I don’t weigh enough to pull all the things I do around this place.
I have to admit to myself that I’ve grown stronger because of the duties I have; and one can’t help but gain a sense of responsibility when one does as much as I do. I follow instructions every day, and do what I’m asked, even though I don’t enjoy it. Who would? Being the oldest surviving of five children, life is never boring, but it’s not the type of excitement I’d choose for myself. Part of me longs for another life. I find myself staring out the barn window into the clouds for a moment, remembering a particularly beautiful dream I’d had the night before. Then the head of my brother Dax obstructs my view.
“Koli, Mum says you’ve got to come to the kitchen right away; they need you a bit earlier than usual.”
I sigh and roll my eyes a little, “Thanks Dax, I’ll be right in.” He ducks out of sight as I turn to gather eggs from the chickens.
The hen I’d reached under pecked at me, leaving a slice in my right forearm and a tear in the sleeve of my dress. Oh, perfect, I think to myself.I like to think that everyone has a little pride in themselves, and mine is for my skin. It’s always been clear and smooth, unblemished by sun or weather. I do my best to keep it that way, because it’s the only attribute I actually like about myself. If you were four feet, eleven-and-a-half inches “tall”, with frizzy dark hair and eyes too brown and ordinary to even be noticed, you’d be proud of perfect skin too if you had it.
Kolina hated chores.
As she threw last night’s dinner scraps to the pigs she recalled her latest attempt to convince her parents that she really wasn’t needed. There were plenty of workers on the farm, after all. She sighed and remembered their usual reply: ‘everyone pulls their own weight.’ She never understood that phrase. During the mile-long-list of tasks she saw to daily, she often thought to herself, I don’t weigh that much…
But, she followed instructions, every day, without fail or complaint. She was sensible enough to admit she’d learned a great deal over the years from having such responsibilities. Though she’d dreamed of a life better than her own since childhood, she had resigned herself that it would never come. The oldest surviving child in her family, there were plenty of errands to keep her occupied. Now she turned toward the chickens to gather eggs. Life was never boring, but it wasn’t the type of excitement she’d have chosen herself.
Just then, her brother Dax poked his head in through barn window and said, “Koli! You need to go help in the kitchen right now. Liala is sick and Ahni says she needs to rest.”
She heaved a sigh and said, “I’ll be right in Dax, thank you.”
It’s always something, isn’t it? She thought as he ran off. She reached under the last hen to check for eggs when, “Ow!”
The chicken had pecked at her, leaving a good sized cut on her inner forearm. “Oh, perfect,” she said sardonically. If there was one thing Kolina really loved about herself, it was her flawless skin, and she loathed it getting disfigured. Even as she wrapped a scrap of her now torn sleeve around the cut, she admired it herself: the color, and soft flawlessness of it. The rest of me is awful, she thought; from her long dark frizzy hair that never looked the way the other girls’ hair did when she saw them in town, to her eyes – too brown and ordinary to even be noticed. And she was short. Of all her traits, she hated this most. Nearly seventeen years old, she stood at only four feet eleven-and-a-half inches, with no sign of increasing.