story

Here's a tiny bit of the story Im developing for my writing for children course. It's all based off of my childhood and people i knew/know. Im trying to write it all in little spurts, little fragments of memory. Once Im done I'll figure out the order of all of them.

all unedited. like sketches.

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The best thing about summer is that I never see Brendon Taylor around. His parents divorced when he was young and his dad punches him around. I imagine that as a little boy, Brendon was sweet and calm, but with all the pushing and shoving he grew into a nasty person. Brendon wears a dirty old sports jacket and has greasy black hair that he never washes. He smokes pot after school with his pals who are equally gross and shaggy. Brendon has a pimply face, over-powering eyelashes, and thick pink lips that curl up into a yellow-toothed smile. His eyes dart around, only still when he’s stoned or when he’s spied someone to hurt. His dad left him with bruises and he feels it’s an obligation to pass along the favor. His eyes would rest on me, and it was like doomsday.

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Lucy’s favorite lipgloss is Pick-Me-Up Peach while I like the root beer flavored chap stick on my lips. We both like Vibrant Violet nail polish for our toes and Ruby Red for our hands. Lucy wears two eyeshadows, starting with Powder Blue in one corner and blending it into Midnight Blue. I don’t use eyeshadow. Lucy will top off her eyes with Midnight Black Mascara and Black eyeliner. Lucy’s eyes would shine out Glory Green from the kaleidoscope of her face.

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When I was younger, I was friends with a girl named Tia. Tia had long golden brown hair and was shy and quiet. She’d share her peanut butter snack and I’d share my cookies. In fourth grade, we were inseparable.
At my first sleepover at Tia’s place, she had invited three other girls besides me. After watching some forgetful movie and eating two bags of popcorn, Tia’s dad entered and sat near her. I curled up in my extra-large t-shirt and watched Tia intensely-she had an announcement.
Tia told us that when she was a little girl, her Uncle abused her and she just wanted us-her closest friends, to know. In fourth grade I didn’t understand what this meant, but Tia started crying and that made me and the other girls start to cry. I was confused, why would anyone want to tell someone else about that sort of thing? We all huddled around Tia and each other, creating a mass of My Little Pony Pajamas, pigtails, Tweety Bird slippers, and young girl tears.
Tia’s father stood off to the side, iching his elbow, with a sad, desperate expression on his face as he watched this cluster of clinging, grasping, sobbing, children.

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