Nanowrimo Submission

Okay, here is my first submission for Nanowrimo. I'm a total of 5006 words in. As of this moment I am 3329 words behind (mostly because of not writing yesterday due to watching the elections from 6:00pm to 12:30am). I intend on getting some writing done tonight and again tomorrow. The weekend will be used for catchup and hopefully getting ahead. I want to stay the course otherwise I will not be successful at getting my 50,000 words. The quality of the story probably isn't where I want it to be, but I don't really care. Nano is about getting words to paper. That's what I intend to do. So, without further avail, I roll out my story...

The Enviable Life of Wyatt Klinker

May 9 - Dear Starlog:

I never really know how to start these diary pages. I think it sounds kinda girlish to write “dear diary”. T-Harv, my English teacher in 10th grade (oh, that’s Mr. Harvey by the way) started us writing daily journals and while I wasn’t much for that back then, I think I’m going to give it a try again. I graduate in a month or so and I thought it would be a good idea to get some of my thoughts down. It seems like the year is going by so fast, and while I’m not a big fan of high school, I would like to have some memories jotted down so I can look back one day and see what all this “I wish I was your age” crap my parents have been feeding me is all about.

Oh, my parents. What can I say? They are okay. I think a lot of times they don’t even see that I’m here, but you know, that’s all good with me. Most of the time I would rather they not be around. They told me the other day that they had a surprise for my graduation. They were buying me a plane ticket to go to Chicago to stay with my uncle for a month or so during the summer. They tell me that I will love the big city and that I need to see more of the world and that this is a great opportunity and that Uncle Rich is a great guy and Aunt Carla is really looking forward to seeing me. Happy graduation they tell me.

Wow, great opportunity, right? Not really. Turns out Mom and Dad are going to Europe for three weeks. My guess is that they don’t really trust me enough for me to stay home by myself while they are gone.

My parents are really possessive. We have whole rooms in my house that I’ve never actually been in. Well, I guess I’ve been in them but as far as being functional, they don’t really have a use. The “living room” is about as dead as a room can be. It is the pace where the nicest furniture goes. It’s the place where we keep the piano, and a nice silver candelabra that has never actually ever been introduced to a burning candle. The carpet is white, and I mean white. Mom intends to keep it that way. Dad doesn’t care as long as he has his big screen TV and I completely ignore the place.

It’s like that in my house. Dad sits in HIS chair, clutching HIS remote. Mom has HER living room, and HER sewing stuff (I learned all about that when I tried to cut up some cardboard with a pair of her scissors). I have MY room, with all ITS rules and regulations placed upon me by my parents. Make your bed. Pick up your clothes. Vacuum your carpet. Dust your dresser. Take those posters off the wall you’re going to scar the drywall with your poster putty. Funny how my space comes with rules governing my behavior while their spaces come with rules governing, well, my behavior.

I can’t wait for graduation.

CHAPTER 1: CHICAGO

With his hand tightly gripping the armrest of seat 32A, Wyatt felt the plane’s tire absorb the bounce of the runway as they touched down at O’Hare airport in Chicago. An audible exhale came from many of the less seasoned flyers and those who were not big fans of flight (including Wyatt) as they began to coast to a stop in front of the terminal.
Immediately the click of seatbelts filled the air as bustling travelers unclicked their belts, stood and began pulling over-stuffed carry-on bags out of the overhead compartments.
Wyatt felt the pressure of a man’s pelvis pressing against his shoulder the guy stretched forward to reach his briefcase shoved back in the recesses of the compartment.
“Welcome to Chicago, Wyatt. Would you mind if I drape my junk over your shoulder?” Wyatt could imagine the man thinking.
“How freaking ridiculous is this? They should make these asses go back to kindergarten and learn about taking their turns,” he thought and he slowly leaned to his left, separating himself from the man’s groin.
Luckily the seat to his left had been empty; otherwise Wyatt would have been cozying up to who knows who.
“Will this freaking guy hurry up,” he thought as the arm rest dug into his side, making him more uncomfortable by the second.
Finally the briefcase came free and the man hurried off down the aisle of the plane, shoving his way past others who continued to struggle with their baggage.
“Well, there’s no sense in hurrying, I’m sure my uncle isn’t all that excited to see me. At least he isn’t if he shares the same sentiment as I do.” Thinking this, Wyatt did the only thing he could think of, he simply sat there, watching as everyone struggled to exit the plane, seemingly at the same time.
After a few minutes it actually became quite humorous. More than once a person shoved past another, causing one to lose balance and fall into the lap of another completely innocent passenger. The image of rats trying to escape a sinking ship crossed his mind. It was pretty entertaining.
It took about fifteen minutes for the plane to completely clear, leaving Wyatt and the flight crew as the only occupants of the deserted cabin. Standing up Wyatt caught sight of one of the flight attendants. A look of impatience appeared on her face. It was clear to him that these people were not only aware of the chaos that ensued at the gate, but welcomed it, for it meant that they too could escape the cabin and free themselves of the oppressive confines of the coach cabin. Wyatt was the last participant of the lemming like departure and the denizens of the air who made their living flying from one city to another were impatient to be rid of them. All of them.
Wyatt took his time removing his carry-on bag, whistling a titleless tune to himself, taking care to look up and smile at the flight attendant every few seconds. He knew what she was thinking and after being powerless for the last four hours he was reveling in this new found control.
It took him a few minutes to get his bag down, check the back of his seat to assure he hadn’t left anything there, retie his shoe, tuck his shirt in and comb his fingers through his hair before he figured there wasn’t anything left to do that could stall his departure. With a smile he made his way to the exit, and even when he caught the slight rolling of the flight attendants eyes, he didn’t allow for the smile to fade.
“You know, you folks really do have a great job,” he said to the woman standing at the exit.
“It’s not too bad,” she replied, allowing her impatience to show in her tone.
“Yeah,” he said with a wink, “all you have to do is sit around flying back and forth, must be great doing nothing and get paid for it.”
He didn’t hesitate to hear what she had to say, instead, he just walked past, leaving her behind to digest his words.

If the plane was chaotic, the terminal was insanity. A seemingly endless wave of people pushed past one another, scurrying for whatever part of the airport they needed to get to. Again, Wyatt gave way to them, moving as close to the wall as he could to get out of the main flow of human traffic.
Glancing at the digital readout on his Burger King watch (Wyatt had refused to wear the nice Casio his parents had given him for Christmas instead relying on the less than accurate treasure he picked up in a happy meal). It was now 3:30 local time and he knew his flight had been right on time. He wondered to himself how often that actually happened.
Uncle Rich knew Wyatt’s flight was supposed to land around 3:30 and had told his dad that he would meet him at the entrance to the terminal. The teen figured that was cool, and even though he hadn’t seen him in about five years, was sure he would be easy to recognize with his V-neck sweater with a white t-shirt underneath. Uncle Rich was pretty predictable. As far back as Wyatt could remember he had worn those ugly sweaters. Even in the summer his clothes failed to change. The only thing that ever really fluctuated was the length of the sleeves. In the summer it was a sweater vest. In the winter, long sleeves pushed up to the elbow. In the spring and fall, short sleeves.
Failing to see a sweater vest that he recognized, Wyatt went and retrieved his luggage from baggage claim. He didn’t begin to worry in the least when he noted that it was past four. Most times he was very cognizant of being where he was supposed to be on time, but the rules of the airport spit in the face of normalcy and he guessed that explaining his absenteeism to his uncle would be pretty easy.
After retrieving his oversized duffle bag (it had actually been an old hockey equipment bag he had found and picked up at a thrift store), he made his way back to the entrance of the terminal and with a bit of displeasure at seeing no one waiting there for him, found himself a place to sit and wait.
“Well this kinda blows,” he said aloud to himself. “Hell, if I’da known he was going to be late I woulda hung out on the plane a little longer.”
The blue bench that he sat on was actually a series of egg shell like chairs, bolted together to form a series of seats. Wyatt assumed that was to keep people from using the area as a bed, as he imagined it would be extremely uncomfortable to try to lie across them.
Now he found himself slumped down on one of these chairs, his feet splayed out in front of him. He ignored the looks he got from people who had to either steer around or step over his extended legs. Occasionally he would salute people who looked exceptionally put out, but most times he would simply smile at them.
Wyatt cared what people thought of him. He had spent so many years of his life trying to please everyone. It wasn’t until he figured out that this was an impossibility that he started doing things to invite reaction from people. It used to be that he did things to please people, but he found it was quite different to try to elicit different kinds of reactions. Sometimes he tried to surprise people, other times he tried to anger them, just to see how they would react. He never did anything malicious, he wasn’t a bully, he just figured he was a student of human behavior. Some people went to the mall to people watch; Wyatt went out of his way to try to draw a reaction from those same people.
People were funny animals. It was pretty amazing how they had the tendency to lose control of themselves, even while pretending to be in complete accordance with accepted behavior. Wyatt’s friend Steve had taught him that lesson. Steve had cerebral palsy and had met Wyatt when they were both eight years old. Wyatt had first seen Steve in his wheel chair at a park, sitting in the sun watching the other kids play on the playground equipment. Wyatt didn’t know better and just stood there staring at the other boy, twisted and bent in his red chair. Steve was peculiar to him and Wyatt couldn’t take his eyes off of him.
I woman beside the crippled boy called Wyatt over, “Hey, you. Yeah, you in the blue t-shirt, come here for a second.”
Wyatt had held his ground, not knowing what to think.
“Could you come here please, I need your help,” she repeated, motioning to him.
Wyatt, ever to be one to please others slowly shuffled over to the woman.
“What’s your name,” she asked when he finally got within arm’s length.
“Wyatt,” he replied, stealing glances at the disfigured boy beside her.
“Well Wyatt, I’m Charlene and this is my son Steve,” she stated, pointing to the boy in the wheel chair. “I saw you staring at us. You know it’s not nice to stare, don’t you?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to,” Wyatt looked away from both of them, ashamed to have been found breaking the rules. “I won’t do it again.”
“It’s okay, it just hurts Steve’s feelings when people do that.”
Wyatt’s mind was racing; he figured that the boy in the wheelchair was retarded or something. It had never occurred to him that he would be upset by people staring at him.
“Wyatt, I know what you’re thinking,” the woman said to him. “Steve is just like you and me. He is actually very smart, he just has a hard time communicating like you and I do. He’s a normal boy; he’s just stuck in the wheel chair.”
As if in confirmation, Steve raised his hand, waved and slurred, “Aaaiii.”
“He’s saying ‘Hi’ to you,” Charlene translated.
“Oh, hi,” Wyatt replied, somewhat amazed by his discovery, a smile creeping across his face.
After that, Steve and Wyatt had become fast friends and while it took awhile, Wyatt had learned to understand his friend’s garbled speech. Many years later, long after Wyatt had completely disregarded Steve’s disability, the two of them had went to an outdoor mall with Steve’s mom. As she shopped in one of the many upscale stores, the two friends sat out in the sun, beside a large fountain.
“See that lady over there,” Steve had pointed out to Wyatt. “Watch her.”
Out of the corner of his eye Wyatt watched the woman. While she was careful not to stare, it was quite evident that she was complete enraptured by the boy in the red wheel chair. She would steal glances at him and even had the nerve to point the crippled boy out to her friend who walked with her. Wyatt knew that she didn’t mean to be impolite, but the presence of Steve captivated her and she couldn’t help herself.
Later Steve had explained to him that he was used to that kind of stuff and that Wyatt had to be ready for it too. More than once during their friendship Wyatt had gotten upset at small children who had stared, or pointed and the disable youth. He had even more problems with adults who stared of mumble to their friends. One lady even told Wyatt how nice he was for pushing his retarded brother through the store one time. It had taken Steve more than a few minutes to calm his friend down when Wyatt yelled at the lady, drawing the attention of more than a few store patrons.
Yet these many times with Steve had taught Wyatt a great deal about people. Steve had constantly said, “Wyatt, they can’t help it.” It had taken Wyatt a long time to accept this fact. That’s when Wyatt started doing things to elicit reaction from people, and that why even with people grumbling as they step around him, Wyatt never even thought about moving his legs out of the aisle way.

June 19 - Dear Starlog

Yesterday’s trip into Chicago was all kinds of fun. I ended up sitting at the airport until well after 8:00pm because Uncle Rich decided to play golf with some guys from work and completely forgot about picking me up. Aunt Carla ended up picking me up and let me tell you, Mom may have said she was looking forward to seeing me, but based on her reaction when she finally found me I would beg to differ. I couldn’t tell if she was mad at me, or at Uncle Rich for forgetting about me. My cousin Lindsey came with her and told me as we were walking through the airport that she was supposed to get her nails done but instead had to come get me after Uncle Rich called and told her that he was going to be home late because he was still at the country club. Makes me feel really good about being in Chicago. My uncle is playing golf and my aunt is making nail appointments while I’m sitting in the biggest airport in the world doing absolutely nothing. What a great graduation gift. I have to make sure to let Mom and Dad know how wonderful everything is starting.

Not everything is that bad though. My room here at the palace is pretty nice (I call it the palace because it seems Uncle Rich does pretty well with the business that he owns). In fact, the whole house is nice. Aunt Carla has a living room as well (although she calls it the sitting room yet no one ever sits in there. Maybe I’ll suggest to mom that we start calling her no enter zone a sitting room too).

Anyway, they stuck me in what’s called an “extra room” over the garage. They moved a bed in there for me and I’ve got a foot locker to put all my stuff in so it isn’t too terribly bad. There are a series of three big windows on both sides of the room looking out over the driveway in the front and the big backyard and pool in the back. It’s a pretty good view. Uncle Rich was using the room as a work out area, so there are a bunch of weights and a punching bag he has hanging in the corner. He also has a big 36” television hanging on the wall. I’m pretty happy about that.

Uncle Rich suggested putting me in the guest bedroom but Aunt Carla told him no. She said I would like it much better in the extra room. I think she just didn’t want me in that room. It has a nice frilly bedspread and a four post bed and I think she didn’t feel I was worthy of sleep in such a nice area. Uncle Rich didn’t care, he just wanted access to his weight room. Frankly I’m happy where I’m at. It is at the other end of the house from everyone else and I figure I can escape here whenever I need to get away, which I’m figuring is quite often.

Lindsey is pretty cool. Actually, Lindsey has completely changed since the last time I saw her. When they came out to visit us in Boston she was pretty much a little geek. Of course she was only eleven back then. She had just gotten braces on her teeth and wore some funky looking pink rimmed glasses. She doesn’t have braces anymore and she lost the glasses. I tell you, she’s still a geek, but there is something about her. She’s kinda cute in a weird way. Anyway, she at least talks to me. I get the feeling that I’m not really welcome, but hey, I should have known that coming in. I don’t mind being shipped off to a place I’m not wanted, at least the expectations of me won’t be that high.

I haven’t done much today being Sunday. Uncle Rich is out playing golf (again) and Aunt Carla is out shopping. I guess Sunday is shopping day. Lindsey went with her and I’m stuck here with the housekeeper (who normally doesn’t work on Sundays) but Aunt Carla asked her to come by today to “tidy up”. My guess is that they don’t trust me here alone. At least they didn’t ship me off to my mom’s other brother in New Jersey until they got back.

CHAPTER 2: LINDSEY

It was apparent after a short time that while Wyatt was a guest of his aunt and uncle, they were not going to go out of their way to ensure that he had a good time while in Chicago. Most of his days were spent in the room above the garage, watching television, reading or simply sitting around doing nothing.
During the week everyone scurried through their various activities. Wyatt’s Uncle Rich would leave for work around 7:30 and not get home until late in the evening, typically spending a good deal of time in the late afternoon at the golf course. At least once a week he would go out of time for the evening, checking on one of his out of town offices.
Aunt Carla was rarely home. Wyatt didn’t really know what she did with her time, but figured it involved her nails, hair or feet because she always seemed to have a spa appointment. On occasion she would have ladies from the country club over for lunch, which usually meant that Wyatt either had to go find something to do or stay in the “extra room” until everyone was gone. Again, this didn’t bother Wyatt much. He really didn’t want anything to do with either Carla or Rich.
On this particular day his aunt had some errands to run and had left around 10:00am leaving Wyatt at home with Lindsey and Chaya, the housekeeper (who was happily picking up quite a few overtime hours with the extra time she was spending at work over the weekends (on babysitting duty as Wyatt called it).
Lindsey typically went with her mom but today she decided to stick around the house. It seemed her friend Shelly was coming to pick her up and take her to some movie the two wanted to see.
Wyatt decided he was tired of sitting in the ER (or the “extra room” as he called it) and decided he would take a dip in the pool. It had been exceptionally hot all week and he was bored.
The pool was oval shaped and surrounded by chase loungers. One end, closest to the house, had a patio with a slatted veranda that offered some shade from the Midwestern sun. Wyatt figured he would just hang out here all day. While Aunt Carla was anal about certain things, she was pretty open about others and Wyatt was comfortable raiding the refrigerator. Uncle Rich had even told him that he was welcome to a beer or two, as long as he stayed at the house and didn’t have anybody.
This, of course, struck Wyatt as a bit odd. First off, where the hell did Uncle Rich think he was going to go? Secondly, and even more ridiculous, who the hell did he think he was going to invite over. It wasn’t like he had friends calling on him here in Chicago. Wyatt seriously doubted any of his friends would be flying a thousand miles to come and visit him just to drink his uncle’s Budweiser. Wyatt was tempted to point this out to his uncle, but decided against it.
Wyatt grabbed a silver serving tray out of the cabinet and loaded it up with lunch meat, bread, cheese, chips, grapes, and other food from the fridge. There was no way he was going to eat it all but figured he would just waste the afternoon away snaking on it out by the pool. After taking the tray of food out to the veranda her returned and grabbed two beers, sticking one in an ice bucket to keep it cold.
Wyatt had never actually drank beer, but figured he wasn’t going to pass up an opportunity if it was offered to him. Besides, his vacation hadn’t seen much adventure. He figured that drinking his first can of beer might end up being the highlight of this whole trip.
Taking the beers out to the pool he opened and took a long pull on the can. It had a terrible after taste, but in the heat of the day he figured that he could get used to the taste. Besides, it was beer. He figured it would be an acquired taste and today, under the veranda, he had decided he was going to start acquiring it.
After eating a sandwich and finishing his first beer Wyatt got up, pulled off his t-shirt and went to get in the pool. The water was cool and took his breath away when he first dove in. Wyatt had always been a decent swimmer and enjoyed the water. He was swimming laps back in forth and never noticed Lindsey come out. When he stopped and looked over at the veranda Lindsey was sitting at the table drinking the other can of beer Wyatt had iced down.
“Hey, you shouldn’t be drinking that,” he called out to her.
“Why? You’re not twenty-one either!” She called back, a smirk crossing her face.
“That’s not what I meant. You’re dad didn’t say you could have that and I don’t want to get in trouble if he finds out.”
She flipped her hand as if to say who cares and took a long drink from the can.
“Come on Lindsey, you’re only sixteen. Knock it off,” Wyatt called out as he made his way to the ladder to climb out of the pool, intent on getting the alcohol away from her.
“This is ridiculous,” he thought. “Why in the hell is she doing this?”
As he approached her she turned, pulling the beer away from his outstretched hand, “Come on Linds, give it to me.”
“What’s it matter to you if I drink it, it’s not like you care. You just don’t want to get in trouble,” she barked at him.
“I care. Besides, I don’t want you to get in trouble either,” he pled, sticking his hand out again.
“Why would you give a shit about me? No one else seems to.”
Wyatt began to see a different problem arising from this. Lindsey was pissed off about something and Wyatt had a pretty good guess.
“It’s okay Lindsey. I care about you a lot. I don’t want you to get in trouble and there is no reason to be pissed off at me. I can tell you’re mad at your parents,” he wasn’t sure it was her mom or her dad, but he was sure it was one of them.
“I’m not mad at my mom,” she started.
“So, it’s you dad then, what did he do?”
“It’s not what he did, it’s what he doesn’t do. He’s never home. He doesn’t care about me, or mom, or anyone but himself. I’m tired of him promising to be home then not showing up until ten o’clock at night, drunk on his ass. He promised he would taking me shopping for cars for my sixteenth birthday and that was a month ago. He wasn’t even home for my party. It makes me sick that he doesn’t even bother to talk to me,” as she shouted tears welled in her eyes.
Wyatt wrapped his arms around her. “It’s alright” he said as he wrapped his arms around her. “My parents are the same way. My dad rarely talks to me and when he does he’s normally yelling. My mom doesn’t care if I’m ever around, in fact, I think she would rather I not even exist. Why do you think they sent me here for a month, it’s to get rid of me.” Wyatt too was letting his anger show.
“I thought they went to Europe?” she asked, looking up at him.
“They did, but you would think that for my graduation they would do something more for me rather then sending me here. Not that being here with you is bad,” he added.
The look she gave him changed, and immediately Wyatt was uncomfortable. It was as if her eyes glazed over and she looked inside of him. It was not a look he was comfortable with coming from his cousin. In no way was Wyatt experienced in the ways of the world, but something inside of him made him cringe internally. He could only imagine her thoughts and it caused him to loosen his arms just moments ago holding her tight.
“I know Wyatt,” she proclaimed as she took his hand. “It is terrible how they treat us.”
Wyatt broke her stare at the same time removing his hand from hers. “Well,” he stuttered, “they all suck. But that doesn’t mean we should be drinking your dad’s beer. That’ll just piss them off more.”
He was at a complete loss for words. “Come on Lindsey, give me the beer, okay?”
She stared at him for a moment longer and the spell was seemingly broken. She flipped the beer can at him, the nearly full container sloshing the cold drink on his bare chest. “It tastes like crap anyway,” she admitted, getting up out of the chair and heading back inside.
Wyatt just stood there, the beer puddling at his feet. He wasn’t sure what had just happened, but he was afraid that his cousin had been looking at him as more than just his cousin. Strangely however, Wyatt wasn’t completely appalled, and that’s what bothered him the most.
He had never really dated anyone in school. Mostly it was because he stuck to himself. Some people thought he was weird and frankly he never really pursued any girls. This was really foreign territory for him. The one thing he did know was that he hoped he was wrong. Lindsey was attractive, and sweet, and truthfully had a very nice body, he had seen that when he looked out his window and saw her sunbathing by the pool. But she was his cousin, and he knew that it was creepy to even think about her as being anything more.

Catching Up: Creative Writing Part 4

Well, I took the weekend off. I worked this weekend and decided to spend my free time either playing with the kids, playing World of Warcraft, reading Forever Odd or visiting friends. Needless to say I didn't find the time to write. So, I've caught up. A bit longer post than normal, but back on track for 100,000 in 200 days. Hope you enjoy and please feel free to leave comments or send me an email with your constructive criticism. (lonnbristolblog@gmail.com)

Charles had experienced long weeks before, but in truth, this one had been longest he could ever remember. Each minute seemed to drag as if the fabric of time itself had been snagged and caught firm in the grasp of an unseen captor. To add to the misery of the dragging minute hand, Gunner had decided that he needed to raise the bar with his pranks.

He continued to knock the books out of Charles hands and when the smaller boy took to carrying his class materials inside his backpack the bully countered by trying to squeeze Charles into one of the lockers. By Thursday Charles quit going to lunch altogether, instead spending that break in the library, sneaking bites of his lunch so the librarian wouldn’t catch him. This change had been facilitated because Gunner had taken to shoving various discarded food items down the back of the Charles’ shirt. On the first day it was simply a crust of bread. Tuesday it was a handful of crushed potato chips which caused the younger boy to scratch and itch all day long. On Wednesday it had been a huge pile of spaghetti. This had brought the freshman to his breaking point.

At first Charles was simply angry and disgusted by the slimy pasta slipping farther down his shirt, sending a chill up his back. The more he thought however, the braver he became. Perhaps he was buoyed by the fact that Mr. Martin had told him that come Saturday he would have ammunition to use to fight back against Gunner. Instead of taking it this time, he decided he would confront the enemy.

Untucking his shirt, Charles fished what he could of the cold slimy goo out of his clothing. With it still in hand he stood up and stalked the length of the lunchroom after the retreating bully. A collective “Ooooooohhhh” went up as the smaller boy stalked Gunner, intent on exacting a bit of revenge.

Hearing the crowd around him, Gunner turned to see Charles rushing towards him, a handful of wet spaghetti in his left hand, while the remainder of the pasta slipped out from the back of the smaller boy’s shirt and flopped to the floor like so many wriggling worms.

Charles really didn’t know what he was planning to do. He was simply tired of Gunner Blanton and he wasn’t going to take it anymore.

Gunner, however, had other ideas. Seeing the freshman closing in, he set his feet and raised his hands, palms out, fingers up. He looked like one of the figures in the posters you would see advertising big time wrestling that would crop up around town whenever a company of those particular entertainers were coming to town. There he stood, waiting for Charles to get to him.

Gunner lived for moments like this. The teasing and harassment were really secondary to the thrill he got from the confrontation. He had been waiting for the scrawny little punk to crack, and now he had. There really was nothing better than this.

Charles reached the larger boy and had every intention of shoving the cold noodles down Gunner’s shirt. There were however a few slight problems, the biggest of them being the fact that Gunner wasn’t five foot tall (like Charles), he wasn’t sitting down with his back to Charles (as Charles had been to him) and from his posture it appeared that Gunner was not in the mood to have spaghetti shoved down the back of his shirt.

Seeing these things, Charles let instinct set in.

Charles isn’t left handed, but that really didn’t cross his mind as a surge of adrenaline forced the younger boy to make his decision. He flung the spaghetti at the larger boy, only to have to land helplessly not in the bully’s face, but squarely on the toe of his scuffed up, black hiking boot.

This failure to hit with his ranged weapon did not deter the smaller boy who followed up his errant throw with a scream and with hands flailing like a drowning swimmer, a full on assault of the larger boy.

Charles wasn’t sure if he had landed any punches (can you call a slapping, open hand a punch?) What he did know and know well, was that Gunner had landed the one and only he had thrown.

Charles crumpled like a tin can does when you step on it, veritably bending around the bully’s fist as his connected with his midsection. The wind escaped his lungs like a collapsed bellows, leaving the smaller boy’s eyes and mouth wide. Shortly thereafter Charles seemingly slid off of Gunner’s fist, onto the floor, curling up like a baby in the fetal position while gasping for the air his lungs couldn’t find.

Tears welled up in Charles’ eyes as Gunner knelt down so as to get close as he could to the freshman’s ear.

“How’d that feel, Chucky,” he taunted. “You thought you could take me, didn’t you? Well, I guess we both know that you were wrong. Enjoy the rest of your lunch,” he chuckled as he reached down, pulling a glob of the spaghetti off of his boot and shoved it into Charles’ still open, and still gasping mouth.

As Charles lay there gasping, his knees pulled up to his chest, cold spaghetti falling from his open mouth, tears running freely from his eyes, an odd character ran out of the crowd and up to him. His hair was raven black. Laden with gel, it stood straight up making it look as if he was part porcupine. He wore various piercings in each of his ears, and while he had objected openly and often concerning their removal, only the holes in his lips and his eyebrows were evidence of the other facial jewelry he wore when he was no longer under the rules and regulations of Cragsville High School.

His clothes, baggy and oversized, even for someone twice his size, were bedecked with shiny silver grommets and clanking chains. Dark purple eyeliner and a healthy over application of mascara decorated each eye. The ensemble was completed with dark lip liner which made his mouth seem completely artificial, like it had been completely painted on along with the pencil marks surrounding it.

Seeing Charles being helped by one of the “freak parade”, the crowd began to disperse. Gunner too, was long gone, knowing that to be caught fighting by one of the teachers would mean a suspension.

“Are you alright bro?” the scary goth boy asked.

“”Just leave me alone,” Charles sobbed, his breath finally returning to him.

“Dude, it’s okay, I’m here to help you. Let’s get you up off this floor.”

Hooking his arm underneath the smaller boy’s, the odd looking kid helped Charles to his feet.

“There you go bro, let’s get you cleaned up.”

He led Charles back over to one of the empty seats, all the while barking at people around him, “What the hell are you looking at dude?!? You got a problem with me? Mind your own freakin’ business!”

Whether it was these exclamations or the attention their stares had brought, the people surrounding the two gave them their distance and averted their eyes. If anything, the boy in black was threatening looking.

Creative Writing Submission #3

Third installment of my Creative Writing project. As always, criticism is welcome...

Like most classes, the biology class sped by. This was pretty typical as Charles through himself at the work. He was one of those kids that seemed to thrive on learning. He hated when the bell rang because that meant he had to brave the hallways of Cragsville High School.

As the other kids left the room, Charles took his time. It was his lunch period so he was in no hurry. If he took his time he could head back to his locker, drop off his books and get his lunch without being bothered by anyone. Occasionally he would hang out in Mr. Martin’s class for most of the time and run to his locker just before the end of lunch. There, he would wolf his lunch down and then just head to his next class.

Mr. Martin watched as he Charles took his time putting his things together.

“Is there something wrong, Mr. Davenport?” he asked.

“No sir, I’m just not in a real hurry. It’s just lunch time and I don’t need all the whole 40 minutes they give us,” he replied.

“How do you like high school so far,” he questioned. It was fairly apparent that something was bothering the boy.

“It’s okay, I guess,” Charles replied timidly, looking at the floor.

“Just okay? That doesn’t sound very reassuring. I would have thought based on the fervor to apply to your work in class that you would be having the time of your life. What’s the matter Charles?” There was real concern in the older man’s voice, something that told Charles that he had an idea what was happening but needed to hear it from the younger boy first hand.

“I don’t know if I should say anything,” Charles slurred, continuing to focus his attention to the gray tiled floor.

“Are you still having problems with Darrel and Sarah?” he questioned, trying to pry the information from the boy.

“Oh no Mr. Martin, they are fine. In fact, I really like them now. They treat me good now,” he stated with vigor. Charles didn’t want to get them in trouble again because they had in fact treated him very well.

The teacher continued to probe, “Is everything all right at him?”

“Yeah, it’s fine there too. My parents are great. I’m just tired of…” his voice trailed off.

Mr. Martin knew he had him on the precipice, “Come on Charles, what is it? You are my best student and I’m concerned. Is it another kid harassing you?”

The boy considered for just a bit too long and the teacher knew he had hit the bullseye.

“Charles, I’m not going to ask you who it is, because I know you won’t tell me. I don’t blame you. If I found out who it was and went to the boy you would be the one that ended up suffering the most. I’m sure that kid would do worse to you if he knew you went to a teacher about him. I understand that. But I can’t let you suffer anymore. I won’t stand for it. I’m going to help you, but you have to make me a promise,” Mr. Martin stared at Charles, “can you do that Charles?”

“Promise what Mr. Martin?” he replied, looking up from the floor.

“You have to promise that you won’t tell anyone what I’m going to show or tell you. If you did, I can’t imagine the consequences,” there was real concern in the older man’s voice.

“I can keep a secret Mr. Martin, I promise,” Charles’ curiosity was peeked. The idea of sharing a secret was compelling but the prospect of keeping Gunner Blanton in check was far more inspiring.

The biology teacher clapped his hands together, “I’ll tell you what Charles, you get through the week and then meet me here on Saturday at 9:00am. You do that and I’ll make sure that you will never have to worry about your problem again. Okay?”

“All right, Mr. Martin. But how are you going to do that?”

“Charles, wait until Saturday, and tell no one about our meeting, okay. This is important, understand?”

“Yes, sir,” he replied.

“Now get to lunch. I don’t want your stomach growling during your next class.”

Creative Writing Attempt Part 2

This is my attempt to continue in my efforts to write a 100,000 page novel. This is the second installment. I will be attempting to write 500 pages a day over a 200 day period. I hope you enjoy. Criticism is accepted...

Now it was a different year, a different school, but the same old treatment. Charles felt like he was painted into a corner, there was absolutely nothing he could. He understood that other kids could be cruel, but it had reached a point that he prayed for relief. Until it did, school was a misery to be endured.

Scooping up the remainder of his books, Charles stood up and shuffled quickly to his next class. Biology was one of his favorites as he was able, for fifty minutes anyway, to separate himself from the rest of the horrors of high school. He loved his teacher, Mr. Martin, who was a self proclaimed science geek (something Charles and him had in common) and showed a real passion for his profession. He also treated the students in his class as adults, as young scientists, instead of freshmen experiencing their first taste of high school academia. This appealed to Charles who was often treated as a little kid, not only because of his diminutive size, but because of his helpless and feeble appearance amongst the larger, more developed student body.

Mr. Martin controlled his class. Gently he would put even the biggest egos in their place. The students who struggled felt success (even after repeated failures). He would make the beauty queens feel plain and the homely feel beautiful. When Charles was in his class, he made the boy feel superior, at least as far as science went.

Most importantly however, was the fact that Mr. Martin was in complete control of the actions of his students. During the first week, one of the kids had made a snide remark about Charles. This elicited a laugh from the boy’s girl friend, who proceeded to make her own biting remark. Mr. Martin had overheard, and rather than scold the two students, simply informed them that their grade for the next month would be tied directly into the progress that Charles made.

“You need to realize that in life you have to take any friendship you can get. People who drive others away do not realize what they are losing out on,” he explained to the two. “I will not have one of my scholars worrying about anything other than the important work that he is here to do. You two as well are to remained focus. For the next month while in this lab, you work for Charles. He will lead the experiments and you will listen and you will follow. At the end of the month if Charles feels as if you are not a productive part of this team, then it could very well reflect on the grade I put down in my book.”

After that the pair had been very courteous, and even friendly towards the smaller boy. Charles dared to say that Darrel and Sarah had actually become friends.

That had always been the trouble with Charles. Once people got to know him they realized that he was a pretty decent kid. Granted, he was a bit geeky (with his glasses and chronically unkempt hair), and for his age, dressed strangely at times. The thing was, he just didn’t care about mundane things like clothing or appearance. His mind was squarely centered on academics and his voracious appetite for reading.

After the fiasco in the hall way, Charles knew he was going to be late for biology. It didn’t really bother him as he knew that Mr. Martin wouldn’t hammer him like other teachers did.

“Mr. Davenport, our workday starts at 9:55am. I am sure your previous appointment was important, but in the future please remember your commitment to your fellow colleagues.”

This wasn’t the first time the class had heard that line used by the teacher. Matter of fact, you could typically expect to hear it at least once a week. While Mr. Martin didn’t make a huge issue out of tardiness, the class was aware that if it got habitual, then the teacher would present an envelope with an attendance contract to be completed by the student and their parents so as to bind them to a “more acceptable standard of responsibility”. It was Mr. Martin’s way of saying, “Alright, this has gone far enough, time to shape up.”

Charles moved to his seat and climbed up onto the high stool of the octagonal shaped lab tables. He let piled his books in front of himself and shuffled through them until he found his biology text and his blue notebook. The rest he shoved to the center of the table to sit there until he had an opportunity to put them on the floor and out of the way.

Creative Writing Attempt

Back in November of last year I attempted to participate in a thing called Nanowrimo. Nanowrimo stands for National Writing Month. It is an attempt for aspiring writers to put to paper 50,000 words over the span of 30 days. At the time I was involved in coaching debate, working another job at the mall (in addition to my regular 40 hour job) and playing in the Warmachine league. I just didn't have the time. I was however able to write over 13,000 words of my novel. To me that was quite an accomplishment. When printed out it was 32 pages long printed out. I had never written anything of that length.

Well, I've decided to give it another go. I want to not only complete 50,000 words, but double that by writing a total of 100,000 words. I'm not going to try and do this over the span of a month however. That is much too short a time. Instead, I am going to attempt to write a mere 500 words a day. That would equate to 200 days worth of writing. I think I can do it. In an attempt to get support (and to share my story) I am going to be posting it here. I want to be able to feed this blog and this gives me an opportunity to post something everyday. I will also add a counter to the right side of the page to track where I am at as far as word count. That should add even more encouragement.

I hope each of you read and enjoy my story. With that said, here is my first installment:

Charles picked up his books as he crouched at the feet of Steven “Gunner” Blanton.

“Aren’t you going to saying anything, Chucky?” the bully asked, nudging a book Charles had reached for.

“I don’t really think there is anything for me to say,” the freshman responded, looking up over the top of his glasses which had once again slid down his face. “Just leave me alone, please.”

Evidently that wasn’t what Gunner wanted to hear. In response he placed his hand on Charles’ forehead and gave a little push. Having been crouched down in the middle of the hall, the smaller boy simply tumbled backwards. In an attempt to catch his fall, all the books and papers he had just picked up, once again scattered across the hallway. Laughs erupted around them.

“You’re pathetic, loser,” said the bigger boy, as he turned to walk away.

Charles despised the sophomore who had made it a habit to find and torture the scrawny lower classman. He had only been at Cragsville High School for a month, and already he had been subjected to all the normal torturous activities typically wrought upon the immediately recognizable freshman targets. These activities included the old standbys (like the “knock the books out of his hands” laugher that the student body was currently enjoying) but also had incorporated a few new ones, like when Gunner had emptied a snack-pack of chocolate pudding into Charles’ book bag.

This wasn’t the first another student had preyed on Charles. He had been harassed by a seventh grader named Evan Davidson the previous year. That was a rough time, as Charles had went into the school year thinking that his time was right to be one of the big dogs in school. He had made it to the top rung in his middle school, yet Evan had found him and tortured all year round. The worst of the events occurred when Charles had had enough and actually broke down in tears after an encounter with the bully. That had been the worst, as all the kids that were there watched and laughed as Charles stood in the hallway, his clothes soaked from the dousing he had received from a well placed water balloon delivered by Evan. He couldn’t help himself and without helping himself, burst into tears, stamping his feet and howling like an injured dog.

This of course elicited even more laughs and it wasn’t until a teacher came rushing up to see what was going on did the crowd quickly disperse under muted chuckles.

Evan had been suspended for three days for that little event, and while he wasn’t allowed anywhere near Charles at school, that didn’t mean he couldn’t find the smaller boy away from the school grounds. It took exactly three days, the same amount of time that he had been suspended, for Evan to find Charles the following weekend at the park (while Charles was flying his box kite) and give him a good old beating. In the end Charles was pretty scuffed up, but the fact that Evan had destroyed his kite was the part that bothered Charles the most.

After that Charles’ parents got involved and threatened to press charges (Charles dad was a lawyer) for willful destruction of property, Evan left him alone. The worst he had gotten was a nasty stare whenever he saw the other boy. Rumor had it that Evan had taken a beating from his dad that had rivaled anything Charles had experienced and received a promise from his parents that he was a goner if he ever even spoke to the other boy again.