Moroccan Riad House creative writing piece

I had a school project where we wrote a report about a house on somewhere in the world. I chose a house in Morocco called a Riad. They are big and gorgeous houses. Part of our assignment was to write a creative writing piece about the house, that included some information that we found in our research. So here it is.

Groggily, I opened my eyes slowly, allowing my mind to flip through my colorful dreams and flow about my body like a sunset sinking into a deep blue sea. Sighing, I quietly lifted the silken cardinal sheets and placed my delicate, seashell-like feet onto the cold, azure-colored tile floor. I let my hair spill down my back like a burst of midnight-black waterfall as I tiptoed into my dressing room. Rubbing my eyes, I plucked my sky-blue Djell from its shelf and slung it over my shoulder. Walking through my closet, I ran my fingers through my other outfits. Finally, I came upon my inky-blue hijab, the one that reminds me of the ocean on the horizon.  Grasping it with my delicate fingers, I carefully lifted it off of its ebony shelf, making sure not to make a sound. Silently, I placed the hijab in the crook of my arm. Soundlessly, like a cat, I padded into the bathroom, careful to close the dark door behind me.

My bathroom was a sight to behold. It was painted a comforting shade of sea green, with a ginormous tub in the center. It had narrow orange stained-glass windows pocketing its walls like golden stars. On one wall, it has a giant mirror and a counter with a sink; on the other is the toilet. I walk gracefully towards the tub and  twisted the two golden nobs. The water flowed like a bird let loose from its cage; it pooled into my outstretched hands, warming them like a gentle, transparent flame, and into the deep tub where it sounded in a triumphant splash, echoing off of the walls of the room.

Slipping off my amber nightgown, I slid into the tub. The warm water filled my skin with soft warmth as I sank into the tub. Stretching around I, grabbed the soap and proceeded with my bath.

A while later, I reluctantly pulled myself out of the bath. A shiver ran down my spine as I grabbed a cream-towel and wrapped it around myself. Towel drying my hair, I walked over to the counter where I had placed my clothing. Slipping my djell over my head, I let its cold fabric fall down my body. Sitting on the cold stone chair, I plucked my hair brush and began to comb out my hair.

After I had gotten myself ready for the day, I walked through the steam-filled room and opened the door. The cold air slapped me like a slick knife, making me shiver as if there was a needle pumping ice into my blood. I walked through my closet and back into my bedroom, where Hamza was still sound asleep. I looked out the window and realized that the sun was starting to rise.

Hurrying through the house, my footsteps rang throughout the hallways as I raced to the kitchen. My bare feet hit the tile over and over again as I remembered that I had forgotten my shoes. Blast. Finally I made it to the kitchen, where I flew open the door and rushed inside.

Quickly, without thinking, I rushed to the refrigerator. I grabbed eggs, bread, olives, and fresh goat cheese that I had made yesterday. Laying those on the counter, I went to the shelves and got, sugar, a kettle, green tea, and salt. Laying those down, I went and filled the kettle with water, then put it on the stove and turned it on. I grabbed a pan from its hook and began to fry the eggs. I spooned the olives into bowls and began cutting bread. After those were ready, I dashed out to the inner garden and picked some mint. Rushing back in, I put the fried eggs onto plates just in time to pour the hot water from the screaming kettle into cups with the green tea. Taking a deep breath, I poured a lot of sugar into the teas, along with the mint leaves and loaded the breakfast onto two platters.

Carefully balancing the two platters in my arms, I sidestepped my way out of the kitchen, up the three flights of stairs, and onto the rooftop patio.

Squinting in the sunlight, I walked over to our table, where the rest of my family had already gathered and was chatting pleasantly about the upcoming day. They all smiled as I drew near, all looking extremely hungry in the couch chairs. Khalida, my eldest daughter, got up quickly and took one of my trays from my arms and placed it on the table. As soon as I placed the second one, everyone dug in.

Before long, breakfast was finished, and I scooped up all of the empty plates and glasses and put them on the tray. Samira, my middle child, accompanied me down into the kitchen to get a head start on washing dishes. Khaldia walked Rayan, my second eldest, Zakaria, my second youngest, and Rabia, my youngest, to school. Hamza kissed me on the cheek before heading out the door as well.

For a little while it was quiet, just the sound of washing dishes and the occasional chirp of a bird. But it was only a matter of time before Samira began to talk. She talked about everything she could think of while we washed dishes. By the time Khaldia came home from taking them to school, Samiria and I had just about finished with the dishes.

“Well, what did you learn last night Mother?” Khaldia asked while she towel dried a glass.

She was of course talking about Rayan’s textbooks that I read at night while secretly repainting the blue tiles with ocean waves. Every day I taught Khaldia and Samiria what I had read the night before in hopes that someday it would help them get a job.

“Well,” I said simply, “let me tell you.”

And so the rest of our day we cleaned and cooked while I taught them the things I had memorized from the text books.

The end!