De Rien
By Abigail M., age 15
We took the train from Caen to Paris. As the train acquired an increasing detritus of passengers, more and more people accumulated in the cramped compartments. I felt sorry for the poor souls forced to stand during the bumpy, jolting ride, clinging for onto the edges of occupied seats. After my guilt became unbearable, I offered my seat to the Young Woman sitting uncomfortably on my arm rest. She refused at first, protesting softly in French. Her petite facial features were dwarfed by a disgustingly enormous pair of sunglasses. She soon realized that I didn’t speak French and sat down. Most likely she dreaded a prolonged non-vocal/multilingual argument, as did I. “Merci, merci,” she repeated. Continue reading











