The House on Blake Street- by Amaya Bremner

The persimmon tree was a tree that always dropped fruit. They dropped like hail; it seemed to say, "Ouch". I stepped on one. The squishy feeling was like stepping bare feet in mud, but that feels good. The seed of the persimmon tree was hard. It's like the hard springs on the bad mattress you are sleeping on. The persimmons it produced usually got eaten by birds or dropped and got mushed and squished by cars of course, but sometimes we would get lucky and get some to eat. But, actually I didn't really like persimmons, so I guess they're not for me.

I'm pretty sure the persimmon tree is still at my old house. The persimmon tree is a tree that holds a special place in my heart because that tree was at my old house and I will never forget about the tree or the apartment building.

The house on Blake Street is the street that I lived in when I was little. It was an apartment, our house number was five. I remember the blue and lemon pattern curtains; I still have some of that material in the sewing box. There was a persimmon tree that always caught my eye.

I remember the time it was Christmas and my grandma was there. My mom called me, "Get up!" They were in the living room, and I got up. It was early, I think. Santa Claus was in my doorway. The door was wide open. I was so excited and surprised. I loved Blake Street and I will never forget that special place I once lived in.