Write with Me, Learn with Me!

All right, kiddies! I threatened some time ago that I would be posting my writing assignments from the two courses I'm taking right now on here every so often. Today is that magickal day!! *And the crowd goes wiiiiiild!*

No, seriously, folks...I'd really like to hear some feedback about this short story I had to write for one class. It hasn't been graded and returned by the teacher yet, but I'm hoping for some constructive criticism from my friends, or any complete stranger that happens to read it. *wink* So here goes...

EXTRA-ORDIANRY

Tean-year-old Marcus Samuel Simon is what some would call an extraordinarily ordianry little boy. With mousy brown hair and nondescript brown eyes, freckles across his cheeks, he walks home from school with rounded shoulders, his hands crammed into the pockets of his blue jeans. The toes of his red and white sneakers leave wakes in the dirt as he drags his feet. Shades of his classmates taunt him during his trudge down the dirt road leading home.

"Marcuth Thamuel Thimon," the shades mock.

A new year at a new school because his dad has a new job at a new refinery. Marcus had anticipated the ridicule; this was the fourth school in as many years.

He sighs as he takes in the faded lime green pull-behind camper; his home since his mom abandoned them. His dad, Stephen Simon, did what he could but work was hard to find with refineries closing all across the U.S.

Twenty-two minutes and eleven seconds to go...

A piece of cardboard that neither keeps out the rain nor the cold is duct-taped over the busted window (the window where his "bedroom" is) at the front of the camper. Two rusted lawn chairs stand guard outside the dented front door.

Marcus strides across the outdoor carpeting that constitutes their "lawn". He retrieves the key tucked inside his shirt. The key is on a necklace comprised of two of his dad's old bootlaces.

Nineteen minutes and six seconds to go...

He slides the key into the lock and twists. Pushing his way into the dim interior, Marcus reaches for the kerosene lantern to his right. The lantern hangs on a rusted nail his father has driven; the book of matches for the lantern is in a brown glass ashtray. The ashtray is from the local (as in three states and two schools ago) bowling alley. It is balanced on the backside of the bench seat that joins its mate and small Formica table making up their "living/dining room".

Lighting the lantern, Marcus closes the door and hangs his key on the hook. Climbing the two stairs that bring him into the center of his home, he sets the lantern on the table. From his position, he can touch the table, the hot plate, and the bathroom door all at once if so inclined.

Marcus is not inclined.

Fourteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds to go...

Looking at the table, he sees his dad left him a note.Dear, son. chance for overtime. Eat your dinner, do your homework, and wash your face before bed. Here's a dollar; get something sweet from Chuck's. Love, Dad.

Chuck's is the convenience store down the road from their trailer park. Marcus moves the four quarters used to hold down the corners of the note and sighs. A dollar might get him gum if the old man who works there takes pity and doesn't charge tax. Marcus deposits the quarters back into the change jar sitting beside the hot plate. He stirs the jar, making it look like he spent the coins - not that his dad would check.

Stephen Simon works from three each afternoon until three in the morning, six days a week. Overtime meant an additional four hours; he would be ready to drive the hour and a half home about the time Marcus would be getting ready for school. The boy would be in class when his dad got home. Stephen Simon would be too tired to check his change jar to see if Marcus spent the money or put it back like always.

Marcus opens the door on the miniature refrigerator. The refrigerator shares the same counter as the hot plate and makes up their "kitchen". Removing the package of bologna and a juice box, he closes the door. The bread is in the cupboard above him. Within five minutes, his dinner is made; five minutes later, his dinner is eaten and his mess cleaned.

Five minutes and eighteen seconds to go...

There is no homework for the night; it's the first day. Marcus heads to the bathroom.

The bathroom consists of a small commode, a child-sized shower, and a sink the size of a sand bucket. Marcus removes the washcloth from teh edge of the sink and wets it. He scrubs at his face, turning the skin pink, and wrings the water from the cloth. Placing it back on the edge of the sink, he exits the bathroom. To his right, beyond a moth-eaten curtain, in his dad's "bedroom". His dad's room houses a bed and a small two-drawer cardboard dresser. The dresser has decorative pink and purple flowers; his dad found it on the side of the road.

Marcus turns and makes his way to his own bedroom. He extinguishes the light as he passes. His room is past the living/dining room and kitchen. Marcus's dad had hung him a sheet too; the sheet is 'Strawberry Shortcake' but Marcus doesn't mind. He bats the sheet aside and climbs into his bed, kicking his sneakers off as he pulls himself up.

Two minutes and three seconds to go...

Marcus draws the curtain shut, closing himself in. His room is made up wholly of his twin-size bed and the small storage space beneath it. Marcus reaches down and opens the door to the space. He pulls out a battered shoebox, clearly one of his dad's, and settles it in his lap. He sits Indian-style on his mattress. The boy caresses the boy, sliding his hands along the top of the cardboard, before he removes the lid. Light engulfs Marcus and he closes his unremarkable brown eyes.

Seven seconds to go...

Marcus opens his eyes to the adoring faces tilted upwards at him from inside. Salutations of greeting drift to him in melodious harmony.

"Hail Marcuth Thamuel Thimon! Hail King Marcuth, the Creator!" the people cheer.

Marcus's face splits in a dazzling grin. You see, ten-year-old Marcus Samuel Simon is what would ordinarily call an extraordinary little boy.

The End.

Allright, now I've put myself out there; laid my soul bare, so to speak, and I want you to tell me if you think it's pretty or not. *lol* Truly, I would like some feedback on what you think about my little diddy, how I can improve it, etc.

Well since I'm at work, I probably should be getting back to doing what they pay me for. *smile* Even if I'd rather be doing this...Chat atcha again in the future!!

B.B. Walter