Story Time

The thing is, writing a novel is hard.  Like, really hard.  I’ve written 5.  Not 5 good ones,  mind you.  Good ones must be really, super hard to write.  When I finished my last one, I decided to go ahead and take a couple of creative writing classes, and now I know just how not good my last novel was.  So that feels nice.

One day, the lovely Mrs. Grumpy says to me, “You should write stuff for kids.”  So the other day, after I decided to take a break from trying to gather up the emotional strength needed to start a complete re-write of my last book, I thought I’d give it a go, this writing for kids thing.  Below is what I came up with.  Enjoy.


Squirrel Takes The Lead

Possum ran over and grabbed Squirrel’s hopscotch stone, which had just landed in the “10” square, and threw it over the hedge.

“Stop it, Possum!”  Squirrel said.

But Possum didn’t stop.  He kicked Rabbit’s stone, and Raccoon’s too.

“Possum!” they all cried.  But Possum just smiled.

So Squirrel and Rabbit and Raccoon ran off.  Possum was mean, but they were fast.

They ran to their favorite tree and stopped to rest.  Rabbit started singing her favorite song.  Raccoon and Squirrel joined in.

A few minutes later, Possum came down the path and started singing too.  But he sang a different song, and he sang it way too loudly!

“Stop it, Possum!”  Squirrel said.

But Possum sang even louder.

“Possum!” Rabbit and Raccoon cried out together.

But Possum just smiled.

So Rabbit and Raccoon and Squirrel ran off again, this time to the creek.  They dove in and laughed.  The grabbed great scoopfuls of mud and caked it on themselves, making sure they didn’t miss a spot.

Just then, Possum came out from behind a tree.  “Whatcha doin’?” he asked.

“Playing ‘Predator,'” Squirrel said.

“It’s my favorite movie!” Raccoon said.

Possum stuck out his tongue and blew a raspberry.  “‘Commando’ was better,” he said.

“Possum!” screamed Rabbit and Squirrel and Raccoon.  And they ran off again.

Possum caught up to them as they waited to cross the road that divided the woods.

“Even ‘Kindergarten Cop’ was better than ‘Predator,'” he said with a smile.

Rabbit and Squirrel and Raccoon looked both ways, and when it was clear, they started across the road.  This time, Possum kept up.

“Heck,” Possum said.  “At least play ‘Terminator!'”

Squirrel turned suddenly and threw herself at Possum, grabbing him by the throat.  “Shut up, you punk-ass Possum!” she screamed.

Possum did as possums do.  He froze in his tracks and fell over in the middle of the road.

“I’m going to play,” Squirrel said to Rabbit and Raccoon.

A truck rumbled around the bend in the road.

“We can’t just leave him,” Raccoon said, pointing at the truck heading toward them.

“I’m going to play,” Squirrel said coldly.

And that is exactly what she did.

The End

Not too shabby for a first try, don’t you think?

Otter Toast Fan Bouncing Trap

Same agent had another flash fiction contest, this one using Otter, Toast, Fan, Bouncing, and Trap.  Didn’t win this one either.  If I could give one piece of advice to teenage me, or to any teenage boy who’s afraid to ask a girl out because of the fear of rejection, I’d say to write a story, then try to get it published.  You get over rejection real fucking quick.

“See you this afternoon,” Otter’s wife said.

“Good bye, dear,” Otter replied. “I love you.”

Down the path she went, her tail bouncing behind her. It was no coincidence the bounce had returned right after Beaver moved in upstream. Otter was not a fan of Beaver.

Maybe her love wasn’t real. Maybe it never had been. But Otter’s was. And so was his trap. Soon they’ll be caught in the rubble of Beaver’s dam, waiting for the flames to take them. In ten minutes, they’ll both be toast.

Oooh, Otter thought, toast sounds delicious!

Punch, scar, beach, send, Ken

A literary agent ran a flash fiction contest on her blog.  Deal was, write a story under 100 words using punch, scar, beach, send, and Ken.  Below is my entry.  I didn’t win, but you know all these anonymous, online, write-a story-in-the-comments-section-of-a-blog contests are all just popularity contests.

Anyway, enjoy!

Just one punch. One brutal, staggering punch. The kind that comes from a deep, dark fury. Enough to send that bastard Ken stumbling down the beach. He had it coming, though, didn’t he? A just reward for the emotional scar Jimmy now carried from watching Ken grope his mother. No one treats Jimmy’s mom like that.

You are so fucking lucky, Jimmy thought, that I’m only 2 years old.

Soon, Ken. Soon.