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Here is a story I'm currently working on. Originally it started out as being a short story, but it's turned into something worth having chapters, possibly a novella. This is the beginning of it and I intend to cut the first chapter off somewhere in here but I can't figure out where. Any suggestions for that would be great. Any feedback, as always, would be appreciated and taken into account during my writing. Now on to the story....

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Mr. Thompson’s Son

At ten years old, children should still be able to look at the world in wonder and awe. Hatred and disgust at humanity should be foreign to them. Life is their play toy and they are free to do with it as they wish. Their parents should hug them everyday and show them the love they deserve. Scraped knees and bruises should be handled with loving care and a kiss to make it better. This is the perfect life for a ten year old child. Unfortunately, through freak chances of fate, I do not have this perfect life.

My name is Frederick Michael Hennesson, but the few people I do know just call me Freddy. I am ten years old, an only child, and I have no parents. My mom died of pneumonia when I was only three and my father, who had cancer for more than half his life, finally lost that battle just a year ago. The rest of my family live out of state and I have never talked to nor even met them in my entire life. The result of all this? I have lived as an orphan on the streets for the past year.

If I can find a random mirror in some trash can, I use an old comb I keep in my pocket to comb my sandy blonde hair as best I can. At this point, my hair is matted down and dirty. Too bad there aren’t public baths like in the Roman times. How awesome would that be? Just take a bath with everybody in town. Might be a little awkward at first, but I’m sure after a while we’d be used to it.

Street life doesn’t seem that bad to me. Sure, the occasional butcher will run me off while wielding a meat cleaver because I tried to steal a few slabs of beef, but I have the freedom to do what I want and go where I want, as long as it’s inside the lines of the law of course. I scrounge about for food, often digging through garbage cans if I can’t successfully steal some. Once in a blue moon I find a family or elderly couple who are willing to take me in for the night, but I am a bit of a kleptomaniac and can’t fight the urge to steal something from every house. Guilt riding in my heart, I sneak out in the middle of the night to continue my oh so joyous life, selling my loot at the local pawn shop. Lucky for me, the owner never asks questions.

Today is….Tuesday? Must be, the homeless man who lives on First Street is trying to pick up hookers again. He’s probably drunk again, I bet. He is so disgusting sometimes, I swear. If I ever turn out like him, I would have someone stab me with whatever dull, rusty metal object was around. I’ve got to get away from him. He disturbs me like no other sometimes.

This is a nice town, apartment buildings and houses lining the streets. Of course, there’s the occasional bakery, butchery, or market placed in between a couple homes. The people have an annoying habit of shying away or just plain ignoring us homeless folk, though. It’s like we have some super contagious illness or something. I wish they could live like we do for a week. Never getting a bath, living off of scraps. Maybe then they would get a reality check and not hate us so much.

As I pass by Louie’s Bakery, I watch through the store front windows as Louie himself works his daily routine. Louie is a nice guy, tall and quite large, but what to expect from a man who works around sweets every day? His short black hair is a bit unruly, often laying flat down on his head. I wonder if he ever combs it, or at least attempts to? I’ve never asked him; maybe I’ll do that tonight. Though I’m just an orphan living on the streets, Louie likes me. He often gives me an extra jelly-filled doughnut or some other pastry left over from the day’s batch. I particularly love the chocolate covered doughnuts with the little chocolate chips inside. Those are so delicious; I hate to only get just one. They are the only desserts I ever get, though, so I’m grateful Louie allows me to have them. I must remember to come back this evening before Louie closes up for the night.

One thing I can’t stand about the city is the constant flow of people walking up and down the streets. It’s like a wave of bodies; I can’t ever walk in a straight line unless I happen to be walking around in the middle of the night. Yesterday, I was walking down Bruno Street trying to avoid bumping into every human passing by me when this jerk in a business suit totally just runs me over and then doesn’t even bother to look back or say sorry or anything. He just kept on walking, talking on his phone. People annoy me sometimes with their “I’m better than you so I don’t care what happens to you” attitudes. At least today people are trying to avoid hitting me as well.

Looking up towards the sky, I can tell it’s probably about 5:00 pm by the position of the sun. It’s just going behind the buildings here on Allison Street. I know I could just ask someone for the time, but no one seems to hear whenever I ask. I think Louie closes his place about eight, so that gives me a few more hours to roam this miniature concrete jungle.

Ah, here’s a sight that always seems to make me laugh. An already stressed out mother is trying to control her hyper young child while they make their way home. The little kid runs away, the mother chases after the child; the mother always then scolds the child and promises the punishment of no dessert or no cookies when they get home. I’m not sure why the scene makes me laugh; maybe it’s because the kid never knows how good he or she has it. It never fails to amuse me, though.

Sitting on the front steps of some random house, I start to think back to when my dad was still alive. He had dark brown hair, usually cut military style. His eyes were a deep blue, just like mine. His shoulders were broad, and his stomach was slightly rounded from his habit of eating just a little too much at meal times. Everyday he wore the exact same clothing: a button up t-shirt and jeans. It didn’t matter where he was going that day or what he was doing, that was his normal attire. The pattern or color of his shirt always reflected his mood for the day, though. If he was happy or excited, he would wear a flowery, Hawaiian patterned shirt. If he was upset or sad, he wore a dark blue shirt. Mad or angry meant he’d be wearing a purple shirt. My father was a loving man, but also strict. Whenever I got into trouble, he’d simply have to give me that stern look and I knew I had done something wrong. My punishment usually consisted of a couple hours in my room with my TV taken out for that time. We had some fun times though. I remember one time we went out to the local baseball field and he was pitching, I was at bat. He threw a slider at me, I connected and that ball went soaring over the fence and into the pond next to the park. I never hit another ball like that one again. We used to laugh about the look on my dad’s face when I hit that homer. It was pure awe and surprise. I miss those days.

I’m shaken out of my memories by a person yelling across the street. Some other homeless person is screaming at random people. He looks like the guy who is usually over on First Street, but I can’t tell for sure. I jump up, startled, as the door behind me opens up. An older man steps out and looks at me. I’m afraid he might kick me off the porch and force me to find somewhere else to sit and think, just as so many others have done, but he simply nods to me and beckons me inside.

As I follow him in, we immediately enter a hallway that forces me to turn left a little ways down along with the old man. As I walk down the hall, I take in the details of his house. The walls are a crème color and patches are covered by old black and white photographs, some of which I can only assume are of him and his wife, others of his family and friends, and the rest of what I assume to be journeys to foreign places that he had taken throughout his life. We pass a few doors through the hall before entering into the main sitting room. The old man sits down in a plush arm chair and motions for me to sit down on the couch opposite him. All the furniture in the house is either some tone of red or some tone of green. It gives the house an almost festive feel. Large pictures and paintings of various people and plants are mounted upon the walls. He doesn’t seem to have a TV, but I notice an older looking radio sitting on the dresser next to the entranceway. The kitchen is connected to the living room via the dining area which holds a medium sized oval wooden table with 4 chairs seated around it. Large black bookshelves line the wall behind me, all filled with books of every kind. Literature is one thing that has always fascinated me and I have always loved to read. I’m sure that later I’ll have to ask the man if I could look through his collection. When I look back at him, I see he is staring at me, a caring look on his face. At that moment, he spoke.

“So what’s a young boy like you doing out on the streets looking like that, huh?” His voice has a bit of a tenor sound to it, but it’s also a bit raspy from old age. He has patches of white hair on his scalp and his goatee is just as white. He couldn’t have been any taller than 5’5”, even without the bad posture he was gaining from old age. He looks to be about 75-80 years old.

“Uh, I’m actually homeless. My mom died years ago and my dad died just this past year. I don’t know any of my other family members and no one could contact them so I’m stuck out there.” I point my thumb back towards the street.

“Ah, I see. Well it’s not often that I have company so why don’t you stay here for the night, at least?”

“That’d be great, sir.”

“Please, call me Mr. Thompson. Jack, if you like, either works for me.” I notice that he pronounces “either” as “eye-ther”, instead of “ee-ther”. This has always been a feature of the educated to me, though I’m not sure why. I know of a few people who pronounce it as “ee-ther” who are also quite educated.

“Alright, Mr. Thompson. My name’s Freddy. Thanks for letting me stay here.”

“No problem, son. You can use the spare bedroom. It’s the fourth door on your right, straight down the hall. Oh, and I just finished supper. Steak and green beans. I have a little left over if you’re hungry.”

“Oh, definitely, please.” He stands up and walks into the kitchen. I notice a slight limp in his walk that I hadn’t seen before. He soon walks back out with a plate of steak and green beans in his hands, which he hands to me. “Thank you, Mr. Thompson.”

“I have plenty enough food here as it is; I have no need for leftovers. You can eat in here and we can continue to talk or you can go and check out the bedroom.”

“I’ll stay in here. I noticed you have a bit of a limp; may I ask where you got that from?” I cut a piece off of the steak and plop it into my mouth. As soon as I bite down, I can taste the juices seared in. I close my eyes and enjoy the flavor while listening to his story.

“Oh that, that’s just from a couple bullets that hit me in the leg during the Vietnam War. It was during the Tet Offensive that my squad and I got pinned down by hostile fire. A few of us made a quick dash to a position with a better field of view and during that run is when I got hit. It kept me from being able to go any farther on foot through our mission, then having to be carried by my fellow soldiers, but I was still able to fire my weapon. We managed to kill every one of those Viet Cong bastards in the end and move forward.”

His story captivates me, as little of it as there is. I can play the entire thing in my head like a movie. I can hear the hail of gunfire around them, the explosions going off in the distance. I can see him and the other soldiers running as fast as they could into a nearby bunker, but then he gets shot and has to fall behind it, clutching his leg. It is amazing.

“That’s a great story, Mr. Thompson.”

“Ah, just one of many, son. I have some more if you wish to hear them, but its getting late now. Time for me to hit the sack and I suggest you do so also. Feel free to take a bath before hand though; the bathroom’s the third door on your left, straight down the hall.”

I watch him get up and walk to his room, the limp quite noticeable since he had been sitting down for this long. Taking a look at the clock on the wall, I see it’s already almost 8 o’ clock. Had it really been three hours since I looked to the heavens for the time? I stand up and walk down the hall. I don’t think it would hurt to freshen up, so I walk into the bathroom. It’s a normal looking bathroom. The sink and mirror greet me as I walk in. The toilet sits just to the left of them and the bath/shower is on the left side wall just next to the toilet, covered by a blue shower curtain. The floor is covered by white tile, not really the safest thing to have for one’s bathroom floor, but if it looks nice to him then so be it. I turn on the shower and strip down, then step inside.

The hot water feels amazing on my body. I have always loved hot showers, they help me relax. Rinsing the dirt out of my hair, I look around and find the shampoo bottle sitting on a rack nailed to the back wall of the shower. “Suave: for men” the label says. I chuckle to myself, thinking how lame it is that I’m actually reading the shampoo bottle itself. It’s a freakin’ bottle of shampoo, I should just use it. I wash and rinse my hair and body, then turn off the shower. Stepping out, I see Mr. Thompson had brought me a towel and some royal blue pajamas that look a bit too big for me while I was in there. I dry off and toss the towel in the hamper across from the toilet then put on the pajamas. They are a bit too big for me in the arms and legs, but the body of them fit just fine.

I walk out of the bathroom and into the spare bedroom that Mr. Thompson assigned for me. It appears to be a normal bedroom with crème color walls the same as the rest of the house. A couple pictures adorn the walls of random flowers whose names I don’t know. The bed, which is horizontal in front of me with the head against the left wall, looks to be a queen size bed, covered by pale red sheets, burgundy pillows and a matching burgundy quilt. There’s a small lamp on the bedside table, placed on this side of the bed. The far wall has a single large window facing a window of the house next door. That window happened to have the curtains shut on it at the moment. Hopping on the bed and getting under the covers, I immediately fall asleep, the last thought passing through my mind being that of Louie’s shop, where I had never gone today. I must remember to go there tomorrow.

I awaken the next morning to a plate of bacon and eggs on the table next to the bed. I call out “Thank you!” to Mr. Thompson, not knowing if he heard me, then proceed to scarf down everything on the plate. This is the first real meal I have had in a long time and it tastes great. The bacon is crisp, but not too crisp, and the eggs are scrambled the way I like them. There’s a set of clothes on the dresser directly across from me that I hadn’t noticed the night before. Mr. Thompson must have brought the clothes in this morning with the food. I get up and quickly change into the red and black plaid shirt and blue jean shorts, then look out the window and notice a brown-haired girl through the window across from me, sitting on her bed. It looks to me like she is reading something. I shrug, and then walk out to the living room bringing the plate with me.

I place the plate in the sink and go and sit on the same couch as last night. Looking at the clock, I see it’s six-thirty in the morning. Mr. Thompson is seated in the same chair as the night before as well.

“Sleep well, son?”

“Oh yes, Mr. Thompson. The bed was amazingly comfortable; it felt like I was sleeping on air.” We both chuckled at this.

“Well, I’m glad my accommodations were to your liking. Feel free to stay as long as you like. The pajamas and those clothes you’re wearing were my son’s when he was about your age. He was killed at the age of twenty by stray bullets from a drive-by that happened not fifty yards from our house.”

“I’m sorry to hear about that.”

“Don’t fret, son, everyone’s end must come sometime. Unfortunately some people meet the hooded demon far sooner than others and it’s a tragedy when a parent must bury his or her child. Somehow, though, we learn to continue living our lives, never forgetting the child we loved. You know, in a way, you remind me of my son. He always loved to listen to my stories and he even had the same blond hair that you do.”

I run my hand through my hair, thinking of the boy this man bore and raised. I wonder if he was any more like me.

“What was your son like?”

“Butch was a very physical boy. Always loved to be outdoors, seemed to workout non-stop during his teen years. He played soccer in high school, even made captain of the team his third year. He dated the girl next door during those years. She had brown hair, green eyes, and a smile that could melt your heart. Broke her poor little heart the night he was killed. She’s married now with a daughter of her own. Butch had that sensitive quality to him. The ladies were all over him, not just because he was captain of the soccer team, but because he was a total charmer. I used to joke around with him, telling him he could have any girl in the world he wanted. He just seemed to have eyes only for the little lady next door.”

“What was Butch like, personality-wise?”

“Well, as I said before, he was a charmer with the ladies. He was a modest boy and very honest and moral. He was a role model to all the little ones. Like I said, you remind me of him. Good, honest, loyal, all around virtuous boy.”

His comment makes me wince a little, thinking of my kleptomaniac tendencies. I know if I steal anything from this house, he will be crushed. I quickly make a mental note that if I do steal something, I will put it back immediately. I then remember the books behind me.

“Mr. Thompson, if you don’t mind, I’d like to look through your literature collection here. I’ve always loved reading and I want to see if anything there interests me.”

“Of course, son. Take a look and choose any book that strikes your fancy. I’ve got everyone from Clancy to Hemmingway to Shakespeare and even some Jane Adams. All different novels and short story collections from many different genres.”

I stand up and start to browse through the hundreds of books, seeing such classics as Hamlet and The Catcher in the Rye. Then there are some I have heard of but never thought to read like Brave New World by Aldous Huxley and Songmaster by Orson Scott Card. His selection is so extensive and appealing that I don’t know where to start. I pull out a book called The Eyes of the Dragon then sit back down on the couch and start reading it.

“Ah, Stephen King. Good horror writer, he is. The Eyes of the Dragon, a wonderful story about a king murdered by the local sorcerer and the prince who tries to prove the sorcerer is guilty.”

I don’t hear a word he says. I’m already entranced by this book, my eyes scanning the pages, flying from line to line. I could sit here for the next five or six hours finishing this book. The next thing I know, it is five hours later and Mr. Thompson is asleep in his chair. I have finished almost the entire book by now. I get up, place a marker on my page, and then decide to take a walk. I notice a small white horse figurine on the table by the front door. Reverting to my old ways, I snatch it up then walk out. First, though, I leave a note to Mr. Thompson telling him that I’m going out for a stroll and will be back soon. My kleptomaniac tendencies are back.

Stepping outside into the midday sunlight, I make my way down Allison Street heading toward what I now tend to refer to as my pawn shop. It’s the normal shop I sell all my stolen goods to and the owner never asks questions, which is all the better for me. As I walk down the street, the people passing by constantly stare me, disgusted by me no doubt. I really wish they would stop, I can’t stand when they do that; it annoys me to no end. It’s as if their eyes are searching me. After about ten minutes, I finally reach the Pawn Shop. I know, real original name, huh? Hey, I didn’t pick it. I open the door and step inside.

I’ve been in here many times before, but the dark atmosphere never ceases to creep me out. The lights are all dimmed, though whether it’s because they are set that way or if they are just faulty, I don’t know. The walls are lined with large black shelves that reach the ceiling. They are all covered with various knick-knacks, some of which I refuse to find out the origin of like the bottom half of a toad swimming in a jar of pickle juice. There are also two other sets of shelves set in the center of the shop so that they form a wide aisle leading from the door straight to the counter. The counter is made of some sort of black wood and the entire area above the counter is guarded by gold fencing like you would see in Vegas at the cages where money is exchanged. The old man who runs the shop is sitting behind the cage staring at me. He always does that and it just adds another creepy feature to this already scary atmosphere. He looks to be about in his seventies and his face and arms are covered in wrinkles. Thin, gold rimmed glasses sit on his long, thin nose and his twinkling blue eyes that have always interested me watch me intently through them. I stride forward and quickly reach the counter, pulling out the horse figurine.

“Another sale, Mr. Hennesson?” His voice is high and raspy and always irritates me.

“Yes, sir.”

He takes the figurine and examines it for a few seconds, running his fingers over it gently. I notice now that only the body and head are white, while the hooves, mane, and tail are all gold. He seems intrigued and a little amazed by it.

“Do you have any idea how much this little piece here is worth, Mr. Hennesson?”

“Uh, no, sir, I don’t.”

“This little horse, my boy, is solid gold. I’d estimate this to be worth a few thousand dollars. I’ve never asked where you get the things you have sold me, but this I must inquire about. You are usually wearing tattered clothing and you have told me before you are an orphan just trying to make some money. So where did this fine piece of art come from, and why are you selling it?”

I never thought that I would run into this snag. It never crossed my mind when I picked it up that the thing would be made of solid gold. Thoughts race across my mind, reasons as to why I would be selling this. None seem adequate enough until…

“I was just taken in by an old man for the night last night. He has had that thing for a while and decided to sell it so I thought I’d take it for him. He never knew that it was made of pure gold, he just assumed it was painted to look gold.” That should be a good enough excuse.

“Do you want this back, now that you know what it really is?”

“No, no, the old man clearly didn’t want it anymore. Just keep it and pay me what you think it deserves.” The old clerk shrugged, put the horse figurine in a safe in the back, and brought out two thousand dollars, handing it to me.

“I expect this money to get back to the old man the figurine came from, because if I find out it doesn’t, and trust me when I say I will find out, I will report you for theft.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll give it to him as soon as I get back to his house. Goodbye, sir.” I quickly leave the shop, my strides long and hurried, while my mind races with ideas of where to put this money to good use.

As I turn the corner from Second Street where the Pawn Shop resides onto Allison Street, I notice the old hobo again. He is passed out in front of some house, a bottle of Budweiser on the ground near his hand. I shake my head in amusement and disgust and continue on down the street. People are still looking at me with that drilling gaze; the type that makes it look like they’re peering into your very soul. I ignore their gaze, choosing rather to either look straight ahead or at the ground, but always forward. I quickly glance up at the sun above me. It’s about half way through the sky so it must be about noon, but I can’t tell for sure. I keep walking and notice Louie’s Bakery not too far ahead of me. Remembering that I hadn’t stopped by yesterday, I decide to pop in today.

When I reach the door, I peer inside the window. The store must have at least thirty or so customers, it’s so crowded! Should I go in right now, I ask myself. Why not? What’s one more person, a small boy, in that crowd? I open the door and hear the tinkling of the bells immediately drowned out by the loud chatter coming from all around the bakery. My nose is filled with the awesome smells of the donuts and bread and other such wheat spawns. I step inside, greeted by the bright blue and white striped walls and different posters and pictures on the walls, and immediately hear the voice of Louie himself.

“Freddy, my boy! What brings you hear this early in the day? You don’t usually show up until about closing time.” His voice is deep and he has a very thick New York accent. I walk over to the counter, the better to hear him.

“Oh, I didn’t come by yesterday and I was just passing by so I thought I’d stop in and say hi.”

“Just looking for a bit of light conversation, eh? Don’t want anything from one of the racks, a jelly doughnut, perhaps?” He motions for me to lean forward then whispers to me. “Free of charge for you.”

I stuff my hands in my pockets, the money burning them like hot coals. “Um, sure actually. I’ll take a Chocolate Avalanche. You of all people should know that one is my favorite. It’s those wonderful chocolate chips that get me.” I laugh lightly and so does Louie. Speaking just quiet enough to not be heard over the buzz of the crowd, I tell Louie I intend to pay.

“Well then, one Chocolate Avalanche it is. Give me a few minutes and I’ll hand make one especially for you.” He walks into the back and I take the opportunity to turn around and examine the crowd gathered in here. An older couple is seated at a two-person table over in the corner, both enjoying a basic powdered donut and each other’s company. There’s a mother seated next to them, supporting a very happy baby on one arm and keeping an older boy of about five from running off with the other. His face is scrunched up and he looks determined to get away. The mother yanks him back by the collar and he sits back down while she scolds him. Other people are either standing or sitting around the small shop, talking happily and enjoying their breads and pastries. I love the atmosphere of this shop, it’s always so joyous and care free. I turn around when I hear Louie walk back out. He hands me the donut I adore so much and tells me it’ll be $1.25. I pull out a twenty from my pocket and hand it to him. He gives me a curious and a bit astounded look, but looking me up and down and seeing my nice clothes, he shrugs it off. He rings it up then gives me the change. We wave goodbye to each other as I walk out of the shop.

Eating my donut as I walk farther down the street, I pass by Mr. Thompson’s neighbor’s house and find the girl who I had seen this morning through the window is now sitting on the front porch. Her head is bent downwards and she seems to be thinking quite intently about something. I stuff the last little bit of the donut in my mouth, swallow it, then walk up to her. Seeing her now, I notice that her hair is a chocolate brown and she seems to have that rocker chick look about her, even though her shirt is a bright yellow tank top and her jeans are faded blue with rips at the knees. Her ears are pierced; she has black skull earrings on and a small black lip ring on her lower lip. What amazed me about her though was even with all that, she only looked to be about my age. Walking up to her, I extend my hand.

“Hello, I’m Freddy. Mr. Thompson from next door took me in. I’m an orphan, you see.” Her head rises up slowly until her eyes meet mine. I see they’re an odd green color that is both bright and dark at the same time. She takes my hand and shakes it.

“I’m Samantha. So the old codger next door took you in, did he? He always was a kind man, though a bit senile at times.” She lets go of my hand and looks away, staring off into the distance as though remembering something.

“Yeah, he’s really nice and a great cook. I love his house, too; it’s so warm and homely. Oh, and the collection of books he has! I could read all day from those things if I wanted to.”

“Oh, you’re a reading buff too, huh? I’m partial to the horror genre, myself. I’ll read most anything I can get my hands on though. Do you have any favorite genre or author?”

“I just started getting into books by a guy named Stephen King and other books by a guy named Orson Scott Card. I’ve never heard of either of them before, but they seem like they would be good authors, from what I have read.” At this, an astonished look comes over her face.

“You’ve never heard of either of them?” I shake my head. “Ok, I must introduce you to some of their best pieces. Well, in my opinion they are their best pieces. C’mon, I’ve got so much to show you.” She gets up, grabs my hand, and drags me into her house.

As soon as we step in through the door, which opens up to a small hallway followed by the living room, I notice this house isn’t like other houses. All the walls are white, but they’re decorated with random drawings and designs. There are only a few pictures and paintings on the walls and one entire wall is taken up by bookshelves, just like at Mr. Thompson’s, however these bookshelves are white. Taking another glance at all the books, I also notice they’re all alphabetized by the author’s name. Based on the house, I would venture to say that this is a very creative family.

As we walk into the living room, I notice the furniture around the house, which is all black, is in mild disarray. The brown carpeted floor is littered with art supplies such as colored pencils and paints. A tall, balding man with long but rather buff limbs, who Samantha tells me is her father, is seated on the leather couch against the wall to our right. A large copy of the famous “Scream” hangs above his head. The television across from him is turned on, the 6 o’ clock news currently tuned in. The weather man is saying something about a storm brewing.

“Hi, Daddy. This is Freddy; he’s an orphan and Mr. Thompson from next door took him in.”

“Pleased to meet you, Freddy.” His voice is gruff, but has a sweet quality to it that you don’t find in most grown men. He stands up to shake my hand, and I oblige. His grip is firm and his hand feels calloused as though he has worked with his hands for most of his life. “So how do you like Mr. Thompson?”

“Oh, he’s a wonderful man. He’s caring and kind and he makes amazing meals.” I laugh lightly and so do he and Samantha.

“He’s a good man. He’s getting old now, though. I do hope he lives for at least a few years more.” His eyes glaze over, a typical sign that the person has retreated into his or her mind, reliving a memory perhaps. Samantha motions me to follow her and we head down another, longer hallway.

“Daddy is really cool. Hopefully later you can talk to him some more and learn more about him. He has a lot of great stories of things that have happened to him in his life.”

“Sounds like a good idea. Where are we going?”

“My bedroom. I want to show you those books, remember?”

“Oh yeah…I almost forgot about that.”

She giggles as we reach her bedroom door. She opens it and I see that her bedroom is just as much the creativity center as the rest of the house. All but one of the walls of her bedroom are bright blue. The other wall is white and looks just like the walls of the entire house. Designs and pictures are drawn all over it. There are large posters of various bands including Black Sabbath, Aerosmith, and Hollywood Undead hanging on the walls. Her bed, which is facing horizontally in the middle of the room, the head against the right wall, is twin-sized and covered by bright blue sheets, a dark blue quilt, and dark blue pillows. Her floor is a total mess, but at least we can still walk through it. There’s a dresser against the wall on our side that has a small, black TV perched on top of it. The closet and what looks to be a wooden art table are on the left hand side wall. The window in the wall across from us, which happens to be the art wall, has its blinds up and I can see into the spare bedroom I stayed in last night.

She sits me down on the bed, then goes and rummages through her closet, finally standing back up, two books clutched in her hands. She hands me one of them. “That,” she says, “is a classic by the great horror author that is Stephen King. Cujo is the name and it’s all about a dog that goes rabid and the family that must deal with that dog.”

“Hm, sounds interesting. I’ll have to see if Mr. Thompson has it in his collection. What’s that other one there?”

“This is Magic Street by Orson Scott Card. Great book and great author, I suggest you read this one too.”

I look it over, and then read a couple short paragraphs in it. “Hm, this one sounds interesting too. I’ll look for it as well. Well, I think I should be going now; Mr. Thompson might be worrying about me. It was nice meeting you and your dad.” I stand up.

“Here, I’ll walk you out.” She stands up as well and grabs my hand, walking me out front. “It was nice meeting you, Freddy.”

“You too, Samantha.”

“Please, call me Sam. Anytime you want to come over, just head on over and I’ll let you in. My parents are rarely home anyways, and when they are, they don’t care who is over.”

“Ok, Sam. I’ll be over tomorrow then, probably.”

“Great, I’ll be waiting for you. Have a good day.” She takes my hand and kisses me on the cheek, then runs back inside. She’s a nice girl, but what was that cheek kiss about?

That was amazing. I loved it!!! I really want to read what is next... You are a very amazing author!

I haven't heavily read through it, I'll save that for later. However, from scanning it over, I'd say you're more proficient than many people here. Perhaps myself included ((I'm not good at judging my work)). Positive points from my scan:


Your first-person style doesn't make me want to gouge my eyes out with a spoon.

The length is decently long, without bogging down the reading with over-description.

The overall style is good.

Bad points from a quick scan:

First person, but this is more of a personal bug.

ok, this story is now going to start being posted in the Novel/Novella forum. Please follow along there if you wish, and happy reading = )