A Red Head's Intrigue and Suspense at the Taj Mahal

One of the greatest joys of teaching a writing class is being able to publish a student's work on this blog.  Our small class has four very good writers on board. Almost each time we meet, an impromptu writing is assigned during class.  The students have about 30 minutes and have no prior knowledge of the subject.  The topic I chose for our last three hour block class period was entitled "My Earliest Memory".
So, without further ado, dear reader, let me introduce you to Anna Hurley, a beautiful and talented young lady indeed, who is well on her way to becoming a great writer, and who's work I'm showcasing below.  Encouraging budding young writers is paramount, so please scroll down and comment below; or better yet, go on her facebook (if you're a friend) and let her know what you thought of this short piece.   And, oh yes...she's definitely a red head! 

Anna January 20, 2010
Mrs. Hostetter/Mrs. Brann Senior Thesis
First Memory
I was kidnaped! My parents had vanished. I was stranded on the grand, marble steps before the Taj Mahal in India. Far in the distance the Himalayan mountains rose up in splendor. The courtyard before me was filled with brilliantly colored saris, dark-skinned faces and foreign smells and sounds. But none of this mattered. I was a prisoner.
A man and woman with swarthy skin, black eyes and strange voices took me by the hand and dragged me off to who knows where. Being an exceptionally bright four-year old I did the only sensible thing and began to kick, scream and cry, sure signs that I was not enjoying the situation. My captors stopped, looking at me in surprise, while jabbering back and forth to each other.
I wondered if they were, in fact, human. They talked so strangely, but they were wearing what appeared to be clothing, jewelry and other human habiliments. My curiosity was piqued, but I could not forget my circumstances. A dark, strong hand still gripped my small white one and I was not about to forgive this impertinence.
Again I put up a fuss and managed to wriggle free. I ran. Not looking back to see if they gave chase, I ran as fast as my chubby four-year old legs could carry me. I ran to find my mother and father who had deserted me, to scold them for their behavior, to throw my self into their arms and beg them to take me away from this strange world where cows and monkeys wander the streets, big buildings made of stone were not for kings or princesses, but for dead people (as if they needed houses). This world was also full of snakes and huge baggy skinned elephants that roamed freely about the countryside. It was a place where people’s skin was brown, their clothes strange, their food spicy and their voices soothing--yet unfamiliar.
At last I spotted my parents. Their fair skin stood out in the crowd and their words I understood. Both were looking for me, their expressions anxious and their bodies tense. When they spotted me, relief instantly surged across their faces. I quickly and quietly explained to them what had happened ... alright I burst into tears, but either way they understood.
A moment later the same man and woman approached us, white teeth flashing in their dark faces, as they jabbered at my parents in their strange way. Unbelievably my mother jabbered back, smiling and nodding. Then she gently pushed me towards them, explaining: “It’s alright, honey. It’s your red hair. They just want a picture.”