It's an older story of mine and one of my more preferable ones. Needs quite a bit of editing and whatnot I know.
----
It was a warm and sunny autumn, a time of Halloween and festivities. Everyone, including the children prepared for the event. Each person working on their part they would contribute to the festival. Among the busily working children at Shady Oak’s Middle School was myself, William Trump. I wasn’t a popular kid or a well-liked child. I hid my face behind overly large glasses, and dirty, long brown hair. You could see myself bent over a piece of my work, working just as hard as any child. But I was alone, I had few friends.
“Hey, William,” Charles, one of the few who could almost be considered a friend of mine, sat down across from me at the work bench. I grunted a “Hey.” in response, but paid Charles no more attention than one would pay an annoying sibling. Charles shrugged, and pulled out his project. It was a large brown piece of paper, with faint outlines of shapes on it. “So, what you doing for your project, Wil?”
I stopped my working, and brushed a stray hair from in front of my glasses, that were too big and slid down my face. I pushed the stubborn glasses back up and on to the bridge of my nose. I looked down at my work in front of me. From Charles position, the scraps of paper hid it from view. But to myself, I didn’t know what I was drawing. On my large piece of cardboard paper was the drawing of an old, broken down house with boarded up windows. The Milburn’s house, yes that was it. “Here.” I slid Charles my piece of cardboard, sliding the paper over the smooth wood like butter.
“Nicely done, Wil. So what’re you doing for Halloween?” Charles said, before he could stop his tongue. It carried away sometimes, and got him into trouble. I looked at him lost for a moment, and grabbed my project. I stuffed it messily into my bag, and ran outside. My teacher, Mrs. Shroom asking me to stop and what was wrong. I ignored her, and kept going. I ran out through the door of the school. Stopping, and angrily berating himself for forgetting his jacket. The cold autumn chill nipped at him on his bare skin, beginning to form goose bumps. The leaves fluttered to the ground, messing up the janitor’s early raking.
I ran, not bothering to look back. I ran until his lungs burned, and screamed for oxygen. I continued to run, until his legs felt like rubber and ached with each stride. I stopped beside a large oak. It’s gnarly branches, bare of their leaves formed a safe haven where I could rest. I flung my book bag down on the hard ground, and sat down roughly. I buried his tear-rimmed eyes in my hands, and cried. It wasn’t fair, why did my parents have to have been killed in that accident. Why couldn’t they have listened to me, and stayed at home with me. But no, they had to go to the party. I remember clearly what my father had said that night before he’d died,
“Son, I know you don’t want us to leave you alone. But you’re getting to be a big boy now, and we aren’t going to be around all the time. Dry up those tears, and give me a hug.” My father helped me wipe away the tears. “Remember son, we’ll always be in your heart if you miss us.” That was my mother speaking, giving me a hug and light kiss on the forehead.
I felt my forehead, which had grown hot with his sobs. Faintly he could still feel the touch of his mother’s soft lips. The faint smell of my mother’s perfume, and the mark her lipstick branded. I remembered, smiling about how I’d later mischievously had rubbed it off. I looked up at the sound of a car approaching by. In the window, I could see the faint image of a old, grey face. The hair was as white as snow, and his face was smiling. The car stopped, a black sedan with tinted windows. It screeched slightly as the old brakes hidden behind the shiny whitewash tires brought the car to a slow stop.
The old man, his face alight behind the wrinkles. Showing a younger side, that you wouldn’t have noticed otherwise. His old joints creaked when he moved, and his arthritic hands shook as he reached down. His old hand felt like rough leather in my smooth, sweaty palm. I grabbed his hand eagerly, like a drowning person reaches for a life raft. His rough, bark-like hand anchored my mind back to the present. I smiled, pushing my glasses back up on to the bridge of my nose.
“What’s the matter child? No, don’t tell me here. Wait until we get back to my place and have something to wet our throat’s. Would your parents mind?” The old man asked eagerly, getting ahead of himself. He’d almost forgotten to ask the boy about whether or not his parent’s would mind. It’d been so long though, since he’d had any company.
“They won’t mind.” I lied, the fib coming easily now after so many rehearsals. I didn’t want to tell the stranger the truth, but he seemed like a nice, old man. Maybe I’d get some cookies. I followed the old man, back into the sedan. I opened the big door, remembering to jog back and get my book bag. I climbed into the old car, sitting down on the old leather seat. I slid backwards in the big seat, but quickly buckled the seat. The old man looked over and smiled, and I couldn’t help it. I smiled back. He started the car. It started slowly, almost stubbornly. The engine revved for a minute, and the car started smoothly forward.
We drove for an hour, or maybe it was a few minutes. I couldn’t tell. The car bounced over the potholes, and cracks in the old road. The trees passed lazily by, and the birds chirped happily in the trees. I rested my head in my palm, and stared at the scenery while the old man continued to drive us to our unknown destination. Finally the car turned on to a long gravel road that snaked it’s way back into the woods. The car rocked slightly in the change of terrain, but the tires moved again when they found traction.
The road, took us back deeper into the heart of the woods. I saw an deer, stare at us lazily and unafraid as it chewed the grass poking out of it’s mouth. I laughed at that, but stopped quickly so the laugh turned into a sort of hiccup. I looked over my left shoulder to see what the old man was doing. He was staring in a dreamy sort of way ahead of us. I panicked slightly, but I told my jitters to calm down. I smoothed my rumpled clothing, and played with the zipper on my book bag. I zoned out, lost in the outside world and it’s beauty.
“We’re here.” The old man replied, his voice full of emotion. I think you’d call it love, and I caught a slight hint of hatred. I looked up, to see something I never imagined. The house in my drawing, But it wasn’t boarded up, or even slightly rundown as I imagined it to be. The man stopped the car, and removed the key from the ignition. I pulled the big handle on the inside of the door, and opened it. I stepped out, the gravel crunching beneath my feet. The old man was already up to the door, holding it open. I jogged over, and stepped through the threshold. The house was decorated like one straight out of the 60’s. Including the large television box with the small monitor.
I stepped on to the old rug, which rustled beneath my feet stirring up the dust bunnies. I sneezed slightly into my sleeve. I began to explore, and taking the silence from the old man as encouragement. I examined everything within the house, not touching anything as if it were toxic. I saw things and pictures of places I couldn’t even begin to believe. I saw the Eiffel Tower in a black and white photo with a picture of a man standing with a woman, both smiling and waving at the camera. I saw vacuum cleaners that wouldn’t even suck up enough dirt worth the electricity bill increase they were sure to have brought about. I returned to the downstairs to find the old man sitting in a large, reading chair with two cups of lemonade.
He motioned to the other stair placed facing his, and he lifted the glass of lemonade and placed it on the counter next to the chair. The old man’s movements were precise and quick despite his age. I sat down, sighing as I sank into the soft, cushioning of the chair. The old man returned to his seat, and crossed his fingers. Obviously waiting for me to try the lemonade. Was it poisoned, I wondered. I stared hard at the cup, watching every little bead of water that sweated trail down the side making a path through the foggy, cold exterior. I lifted the cup to my lips, and sipped it at first. But as the lemonade awakened my taste buds with the effect of an volcano erupting or an avalanche shaking the earth, I tilted the glass more and then more. I couldn’t get enough of the liquid, and I sighed when I felt no more fall into my mouth. I returned the cup, calmly and gentleman-like to the counter. The old man sighed happily, contented.
Now, where should I begin?” The old man sighed, and scratched the bald plate that was taking over where his hair used to be.
“Begin what?” I asked eagerly, enthusiastic. I began to ponder over what he wanted to tell, it must be a story. Yes, a story.
“I know,” The old man began clearing his throat. It sounded like a rake being dragged through a large pile of gravel. “This story is true, in all accounts. I could probably scrounge up the people in the story if you’re really interested.” This received an eager nod from me.
“Alright then, well the year was 1937. Yes quite awhile ago. It was a warm, sunny autumn day in the month of August. The leaves had begun to change hues, and the trees had begun to prepare for their winter slumber. The school year had begun, and Fredrick was like any other normal teenager. Eager to stir up trouble, and do dangerous things. Some of them he would later regret to do. Allow me to tell you what he did that he would have to pay for….”
Fredrick walked the halls of Shady Oak’s Middle School. He was a handsome boy, around the age of thirteen. Just hitting the years of puberty, and his voice had begun to deepen. He was the coolest guy on the basketball, baseball, and football team. He was a real athlete. One of a kind. One of his friends, Harry. Who would play an important role later in the story, no don’t ask questions boy. Harry stopped Fred, that was his nickname, and asked him what he was doing later that evening. Fred replied to Harry that he wasn’t doing anything. Harry asked Fred if he’d like to try something dangerous tonight. Fred, his testosterone pounding in his eardrums replied dumbly, Yes.
Later that night, Fred arrived at the destination stated on the note handed to him from Harry. He looked up, and there it was. The Milburn’s House, dark and mysterious in the flashing strokes of lightning that lit up the sky like Chinese fireworks. The rain pounded on the hood of his jacket, and he zipped up his jacket tighter against the cold. He heard the sound of sneakers pounding on the concrete, and turned to see Harry running towards him carrying a flashlight that bobbed with each stride.
“Hey, Harry.” Fred stated trying to remember why he agreed to this in the first place, but knowing he couldn’t back out now. He was too far in, and he didn’t want to ruin his perfect reputation back at school.
“Hey, Fred.” Harry replied smiling, and pulling out a cigarette. He lit it, and puffed a few. He offered it to Fred, but he refused. Fred was an athlete and knew how important his lungs were. Harry cursed when the wind snuffed his cigarette, and he tossed it on the ground and grounded it out with the heel of his shoe.
“What are we doing here?”
“You’re going to go in there and bring something out?”
“What?!!!?” Fred screamed, his anger boiling in his throat.
“Come on, you ain’t a panzy is ya?” Harry asked, his failure in grammar class apparent.
“No, I’m not. But I’m not going in there!”
“Fine, I’ll tell everyone you’re a panzy.” Harry replied tauntingly, staying out of the reach of Fred’s hitting range.
“Fine, I’ll do it.” Fred replied, gulping nervously.
“Ok then, get to it.”
Fred walked up the worn out path that led to the Melburn’s place, walking over the broken cobblestones. The house was built based on colonial ages, including the overhanging balcony. Fred jumped at the sound of the thunder roaring in the sky, but grudged on when he heard Harry snicker. Fred, opened the door to the house and stepped in. Harry watched him from his hidden spot behind the bushes in the street. He even heard the sound of the door closing. He waited, listening to the minutes tick by on his Casio watch. He waited, and he waited. Scared, he ran home and alerted the authorities. The authorities searched the house the next day, but there was no sign of Fred.”
I stared at the old man, not completely believing a word of his story, until I saw the glint in his eyes. That one of mischievous deeds of a younger child, a young teen. “You’re….hhhhiii-m.” I stuttered, my mouth not quite working properly, and the cushion seemed to big at that time. I stirred in my seat, my mind screaming Leave now, run away. But my body wouldn’t budge, my curiosity had won over my fear.
“How?” I asked, simply.
“That’s another story, child.” The old man replied, that look boring into mine. I flinched backwards, but held my ground mentally.
“Tell me.” I demanded.
“It’s getting late, and it’s time for you to leave before your parents worry.” The old man replied, and I turned to look at the time.
“What parents?” I replied turning back around to find an empty reading chair. I was left alone in the house, with a mindful of questions and just a glass of lemonade. I grabbed the glass, and downed it. The intoxicating liquid tasting wonderful in my throat. I ran out of the front door, and up the driveway back towards town. I looked back once at the end of the drive, to see that same old man looking at me. But then I saw that nervous child, afraid but not afraid. I turned, and ran down the streetlight lit road.
It's an older story of mine and one of my more preferable ones. Needs quite a bit of editing and whatnot I know.
----
It was a warm and sunny autumn, a time of Halloween and festivities. Everyone, including the children prepared for the event. Each person working on their part they would contribute to the festival. Among the busily working children at Shady Oak’s Middle School was myself, William Trump. I wasn’t a popular kid or a well-liked child. I hid my face behind overly large glasses, and dirty, long brown hair. You could see myself bent over a piece of my work, working just as hard as any child. But I was alone, I had few friends.
“Hey, William,” Charles, one of the few who could almost be considered a friend of mine, sat down across from me at the work bench. I grunted a “Hey.” in response, but paid Charles no more attention than one would pay an annoying sibling. Charles shrugged, and pulled out his project. It was a large brown piece of paper, with faint outlines of shapes on it. “So, what you doing for your project, Wil?”
I stopped my working, and brushed a stray hair from in front of my glasses, that were too big and slid down my face. I pushed the stubborn glasses back up and on to the bridge of my nose. I looked down at my work in front of me. From Charles position, the scraps of paper hid it from view. But to myself, I didn’t know what I was drawing. On my large piece of cardboard paper was the drawing of an old, broken down house with boarded up windows. The Milburn’s house, yes that was it. “Here.” I slid Charles my piece of cardboard, sliding the paper over the smooth wood like butter.
“Nicely done, Wil. So what’re you doing for Halloween?” Charles said, before he could stop his tongue. It carried away sometimes, and got him into trouble. I looked at him lost for a moment, and grabbed my project. I stuffed it messily into my bag, and ran outside. My teacher, Mrs. Shroom asking me to stop and what was wrong. I ignored her, and kept going. I ran out through the door of the school. Stopping, and angrily berating himself for forgetting his jacket. The cold autumn chill nipped at him on his bare skin, beginning to form goose bumps. The leaves fluttered to the ground, messing up the janitor’s early raking.
I ran, not bothering to look back. I ran until his lungs burned, and screamed for oxygen. I continued to run, until his legs felt like rubber and ached with each stride. I stopped beside a large oak. It’s gnarly branches, bare of their leaves formed a safe haven where I could rest. I flung my book bag down on the hard ground, and sat down roughly. I buried his tear-rimmed eyes in my hands, and cried. It wasn’t fair, why did my parents have to have been killed in that accident. Why couldn’t they have listened to me, and stayed at home with me. But no, they had to go to the party. I remember clearly what my father had said that night before he’d died,
“Son, I know you don’t want us to leave you alone. But you’re getting to be a big boy now, and we aren’t going to be around all the time. Dry up those tears, and give me a hug.” My father helped me wipe away the tears. “Remember son, we’ll always be in your heart if you miss us.” That was my mother speaking, giving me a hug and light kiss on the forehead.
I felt my forehead, which had grown hot with his sobs. Faintly he could still feel the touch of his mother’s soft lips. The faint smell of my mother’s perfume, and the mark her lipstick branded. I remembered, smiling about how I’d later mischievously had rubbed it off. I looked up at the sound of a car approaching by. In the window, I could see the faint image of a old, grey face. The hair was as white as snow, and his face was smiling. The car stopped, a black sedan with tinted windows. It screeched slightly as the old brakes hidden behind the shiny whitewash tires brought the car to a slow stop.
The old man, his face alight behind the wrinkles. Showing a younger side, that you wouldn’t have noticed otherwise. His old joints creaked when he moved, and his arthritic hands shook as he reached down. His old hand felt like rough leather in my smooth, sweaty palm. I grabbed his hand eagerly, like a drowning person reaches for a life raft. His rough, bark-like hand anchored my mind back to the present. I smiled, pushing my glasses back up on to the bridge of my nose.
“What’s the matter child? No, don’t tell me here. Wait until we get back to my place and have something to wet our throat’s. Would your parents mind?” The old man asked eagerly, getting ahead of himself. He’d almost forgotten to ask the boy about whether or not his parent’s would mind. It’d been so long though, since he’d had any company.
“They won’t mind.” I lied, the fib coming easily now after so many rehearsals. I didn’t want to tell the stranger the truth, but he seemed like a nice, old man. Maybe I’d get some cookies. I followed the old man, back into the sedan. I opened the big door, remembering to jog back and get my book bag. I climbed into the old car, sitting down on the old leather seat. I slid backwards in the big seat, but quickly buckled the seat. The old man looked over and smiled, and I couldn’t help it. I smiled back. He started the car. It started slowly, almost stubbornly. The engine revved for a minute, and the car started smoothly forward.
We drove for an hour, or maybe it was a few minutes. I couldn’t tell. The car bounced over the potholes, and cracks in the old road. The trees passed lazily by, and the birds chirped happily in the trees. I rested my head in my palm, and stared at the scenery while the old man continued to drive us to our unknown destination. Finally the car turned on to a long gravel road that snaked it’s way back into the woods. The car rocked slightly in the change of terrain, but the tires moved again when they found traction.
The road, took us back deeper into the heart of the woods. I saw an deer, stare at us lazily and unafraid as it chewed the grass poking out of it’s mouth. I laughed at that, but stopped quickly so the laugh turned into a sort of hiccup. I looked over my left shoulder to see what the old man was doing. He was staring in a dreamy sort of way ahead of us. I panicked slightly, but I told my jitters to calm down. I smoothed my rumpled clothing, and played with the zipper on my book bag. I zoned out, lost in the outside world and it’s beauty.
“We’re here.” The old man replied, his voice full of emotion. I think you’d call it love, and I caught a slight hint of hatred. I looked up, to see something I never imagined. The house in my drawing, But it wasn’t boarded up, or even slightly rundown as I imagined it to be. The man stopped the car, and removed the key from the ignition. I pulled the big handle on the inside of the door, and opened it. I stepped out, the gravel crunching beneath my feet. The old man was already up to the door, holding it open. I jogged over, and stepped through the threshold. The house was decorated like one straight out of the 60’s. Including the large television box with the small monitor.
I stepped on to the old rug, which rustled beneath my feet stirring up the dust bunnies. I sneezed slightly into my sleeve. I began to explore, and taking the silence from the old man as encouragement. I examined everything within the house, not touching anything as if it were toxic. I saw things and pictures of places I couldn’t even begin to believe. I saw the Eiffel Tower in a black and white photo with a picture of a man standing with a woman, both smiling and waving at the camera. I saw vacuum cleaners that wouldn’t even suck up enough dirt worth the electricity bill increase they were sure to have brought about. I returned to the downstairs to find the old man sitting in a large, reading chair with two cups of lemonade.
He motioned to the other stair placed facing his, and he lifted the glass of lemonade and placed it on the counter next to the chair. The old man’s movements were precise and quick despite his age. I sat down, sighing as I sank into the soft, cushioning of the chair. The old man returned to his seat, and crossed his fingers. Obviously waiting for me to try the lemonade. Was it poisoned, I wondered. I stared hard at the cup, watching every little bead of water that sweated trail down the side making a path through the foggy, cold exterior. I lifted the cup to my lips, and sipped it at first. But as the lemonade awakened my taste buds with the effect of an volcano erupting or an avalanche shaking the earth, I tilted the glass more and then more. I couldn’t get enough of the liquid, and I sighed when I felt no more fall into my mouth. I returned the cup, calmly and gentleman-like to the counter. The old man sighed happily, contented.
Now, where should I begin?” The old man sighed, and scratched the bald plate that was taking over where his hair used to be.
“Begin what?” I asked eagerly, enthusiastic. I began to ponder over what he wanted to tell, it must be a story. Yes, a story.
“I know,” The old man began clearing his throat. It sounded like a rake being dragged through a large pile of gravel. “This story is true, in all accounts. I could probably scrounge up the people in the story if you’re really interested.” This received an eager nod from me.
“Alright then, well the year was 1937. Yes quite awhile ago. It was a warm, sunny autumn day in the month of August. The leaves had begun to change hues, and the trees had begun to prepare for their winter slumber. The school year had begun, and Fredrick was like any other normal teenager. Eager to stir up trouble, and do dangerous things. Some of them he would later regret to do. Allow me to tell you what he did that he would have to pay for….”
Fredrick walked the halls of Shady Oak’s Middle School. He was a handsome boy, around the age of thirteen. Just hitting the years of puberty, and his voice had begun to deepen. He was the coolest guy on the basketball, baseball, and football team. He was a real athlete. One of a kind. One of his friends, Harry. Who would play an important role later in the story, no don’t ask questions boy. Harry stopped Fred, that was his nickname, and asked him what he was doing later that evening. Fred replied to Harry that he wasn’t doing anything. Harry asked Fred if he’d like to try something dangerous tonight. Fred, his testosterone pounding in his eardrums replied dumbly, Yes.
Later that night, Fred arrived at the destination stated on the note handed to him from Harry. He looked up, and there it was. The Milburn’s House, dark and mysterious in the flashing strokes of lightning that lit up the sky like Chinese fireworks. The rain pounded on the hood of his jacket, and he zipped up his jacket tighter against the cold. He heard the sound of sneakers pounding on the concrete, and turned to see Harry running towards him carrying a flashlight that bobbed with each stride.
“Hey, Harry.” Fred stated trying to remember why he agreed to this in the first place, but knowing he couldn’t back out now. He was too far in, and he didn’t want to ruin his perfect reputation back at school.
“Hey, Fred.” Harry replied smiling, and pulling out a cigarette. He lit it, and puffed a few. He offered it to Fred, but he refused. Fred was an athlete and knew how important his lungs were. Harry cursed when the wind snuffed his cigarette, and he tossed it on the ground and grounded it out with the heel of his shoe.
“What are we doing here?”
“You’re going to go in there and bring something out?”
“What?!!!?” Fred screamed, his anger boiling in his throat.
“Come on, you ain’t a panzy is ya?” Harry asked, his failure in grammar class apparent.
“No, I’m not. But I’m not going in there!”
“Fine, I’ll tell everyone you’re a panzy.” Harry replied tauntingly, staying out of the reach of Fred’s hitting range.
“Fine, I’ll do it.” Fred replied, gulping nervously.
“Ok then, get to it.”
Fred walked up the worn out path that led to the Melburn’s place, walking over the broken cobblestones. The house was built based on colonial ages, including the overhanging balcony. Fred jumped at the sound of the thunder roaring in the sky, but grudged on when he heard Harry snicker. Fred, opened the door to the house and stepped in. Harry watched him from his hidden spot behind the bushes in the street. He even heard the sound of the door closing. He waited, listening to the minutes tick by on his Casio watch. He waited, and he waited. Scared, he ran home and alerted the authorities. The authorities searched the house the next day, but there was no sign of Fred.”
I stared at the old man, not completely believing a word of his story, until I saw the glint in his eyes. That one of mischievous deeds of a younger child, a young teen. “You’re….hhhhiii-m.” I stuttered, my mouth not quite working properly, and the cushion seemed to big at that time. I stirred in my seat, my mind screaming Leave now, run away. But my body wouldn’t budge, my curiosity had won over my fear.
“How?” I asked, simply.
“That’s another story, child.” The old man replied, that look boring into mine. I flinched backwards, but held my ground mentally.
“Tell me.” I demanded.
“It’s getting late, and it’s time for you to leave before your parents worry.” The old man replied, and I turned to look at the time.
“What parents?” I replied turning back around to find an empty reading chair. I was left alone in the house, with a mindful of questions and just a glass of lemonade. I grabbed the glass, and downed it. The intoxicating liquid tasting wonderful in my throat. I ran out of the front door, and up the driveway back towards town. I looked back once at the end of the drive, to see that same old man looking at me. But then I saw that nervous child, afraid but not afraid. I turned, and ran down the streetlight lit road.