Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Short Story Attempt Gone Terribly Wrong

So, today I decided to write a short story. Little did I know, I was quickly on my way to naptime-land, and therefore, my story took a very interesting turn as I was half asleep. I promise that I had the best and most upstanding intentions. I'd love feedback--enjoy!

(I apologize for any unwanted images. Prepare yourselves.)



Mister Finchwhether pulled a glossy red apple from his canvas bag. The mysteries of that bag were often unbearably exciting for us.
Nearly every day at the park came something new and exciting and different.
Thursday was a tiny shoe that needed mending; with other tools he began to repair some little school boy’s tiny loafer.
Friday was a green-colored permanent marker with which he made designs in his notebook. Often one of us would catch a lucky glimpse of the notebook. Lines on a page. Really, it seemed as though Mr. Finchwhether just chose either up-and-down or left-to-right and made thick, unstraight lines on the pages. No cats or dogs, or trees or houses.
Saturday was a harmonica.
Today was, of course, the Sunday paper. Oh, how Mister Finchwhether studied that thing. He looked so adult, even old, when he squinted at the tiny black print and swallowed down large chunks of that juicy apple. He even had an adult adam’s apple, dancing about with every gulp.
We weren’t allowed to eat apples like that; our mothers had to peel off the perfect smooth skins and slice them into thin moon-shaped pieces. I’ll bet Mister Finchwhether’s mother didn’t slice his apples. I’ll bet he carried his beautiful red apples all around town and bit right into them and let the juice run down his chin in the dead of hot July.

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