Post by MonsterX on Aug 31, 2004 7:06:27 GMT -5
Hi there! Here’s a short story I’ve been tinkering on over the past couple of days. I thought about posting it in Crows Art, but it’s not MST related and I wanted to share it with someone. Constructive criticism is always appreciated. Enjoy!
The Ice Cream Man Comes at Dusk – by Peter A. White (AKA MonsterX)
Everything is changing, 13 year old Johnny McGowan thought to himself, and he was right. He could see change all throughout the neighborhood now. It was in the “For Sale” signs posted in every other yard down his street, and the dark, empty windows of houses that had been abandoned before they could be put on the market. The cicadas knew that things were changing, and they droned on loud and urgently as the hot August sun began to set in the west, turning the sky from deep blue to a dark reddish-orange.
“Try to set the night on fire,” Johnny sang quietly and remarkably competently for his young age as he made the turn from Forrest Street to Second Street on his brothers old hand-me-down BMX. Johnny would occasionally “pop-a-wheelie” as he sped down the center of the street. He didn’t bother looking both ways when he crossed Park Avenue, which intersected Second Street, since hardy anyone drove through the old neighborhood anymore.
He had learned how to pop-wheelies from his friend Fat Jim, who had a much nicer bike than Johnny since his parents were rich. (At least by Johnny’s standards, who thought that anyone who could afford two bathrooms in their house must be pulling in some tall cash.) Of course, Fat Jim’s funeral was held over a week ago now, and Johnny understood that the only place Jim would be popping any wheelies now was is in heaven, if such a place really existed and if they would even let Jim in. Johnny had considered breaking into Fat Jim’s garage and stealing his old bike since Jim wouldn’t be using it anymore, but Jim’s parents had moved away just a couple of days after the funeral and they had taken their stuff with them, the greedy bastards. Not everyone who had moved away bothered to take their belongings, and Johnny had already broken into more than one abandoned house. Not necessarily for burglary, but out of boredom.
He stopped near the Williams’ house and propped his bike up against the dirty yellow <--> sign that marked the T intersection of Second and Maple Street and the beginning of the thickly wooded path that would take you down to the shallow, dark brown creek that eventually emptied into Panda’s Pond. In his minds eye, Johnny could see the two Williams sisters, identical twins, ages five, standing at their old rusted chain link fence, yelling at him and his friends to get out of the creek, as if it was their property. Johnny and his friends used to hang out by the creek, smoking cigarettes and telling jokes. His friends didn’t play by the creek anymore – they had all moved away. Or disappeared. Or they had gotten sick and died like the Williams sisters. Like Fat Jim.
Johnny’s Mom had made him go to Jim’s funeral. He had never been to a funeral before, and he had to go alone because she was too drunk. It was held outdoors, and scantly attended as many people in the neighborhood were busy packing up their belongings in preparation for the mass exodus out of town. Johnny only recognized a couple of attendees; the tall police man who had given a presentation in his home room class just a few days before, explaining the new curfew law, and Mrs. Williams, who had no idea that her own daughters would fall victim to the strange illness that claimed the life of Johnny’s friend. Johnny thought that Fat Jim looked pretty good for a dead guy. He looked as if he had lost a few pounds, and the mortician had done such a good make-up job that Jim almost looked alive. Johnny imagined Fat Jim’s eyes opening, and it made him want to throw up.
Johnny reached deep into the pockets of his blue jeans, another hand-me-down from his brother, and pulled out 3 wrinkled one dollar bills that he had stolen from his Mom’s purse earlier in the day, after she had passed out drunk on the kitchen floor. Johnny was waiting for the Ice Cream Man, and the Ice Cream Man always came at dusk.
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The Ice Cream Man Comes at Dusk – by Peter A. White (AKA MonsterX)
Everything is changing, 13 year old Johnny McGowan thought to himself, and he was right. He could see change all throughout the neighborhood now. It was in the “For Sale” signs posted in every other yard down his street, and the dark, empty windows of houses that had been abandoned before they could be put on the market. The cicadas knew that things were changing, and they droned on loud and urgently as the hot August sun began to set in the west, turning the sky from deep blue to a dark reddish-orange.
“Try to set the night on fire,” Johnny sang quietly and remarkably competently for his young age as he made the turn from Forrest Street to Second Street on his brothers old hand-me-down BMX. Johnny would occasionally “pop-a-wheelie” as he sped down the center of the street. He didn’t bother looking both ways when he crossed Park Avenue, which intersected Second Street, since hardy anyone drove through the old neighborhood anymore.
He had learned how to pop-wheelies from his friend Fat Jim, who had a much nicer bike than Johnny since his parents were rich. (At least by Johnny’s standards, who thought that anyone who could afford two bathrooms in their house must be pulling in some tall cash.) Of course, Fat Jim’s funeral was held over a week ago now, and Johnny understood that the only place Jim would be popping any wheelies now was is in heaven, if such a place really existed and if they would even let Jim in. Johnny had considered breaking into Fat Jim’s garage and stealing his old bike since Jim wouldn’t be using it anymore, but Jim’s parents had moved away just a couple of days after the funeral and they had taken their stuff with them, the greedy bastards. Not everyone who had moved away bothered to take their belongings, and Johnny had already broken into more than one abandoned house. Not necessarily for burglary, but out of boredom.
He stopped near the Williams’ house and propped his bike up against the dirty yellow <--> sign that marked the T intersection of Second and Maple Street and the beginning of the thickly wooded path that would take you down to the shallow, dark brown creek that eventually emptied into Panda’s Pond. In his minds eye, Johnny could see the two Williams sisters, identical twins, ages five, standing at their old rusted chain link fence, yelling at him and his friends to get out of the creek, as if it was their property. Johnny and his friends used to hang out by the creek, smoking cigarettes and telling jokes. His friends didn’t play by the creek anymore – they had all moved away. Or disappeared. Or they had gotten sick and died like the Williams sisters. Like Fat Jim.
Johnny’s Mom had made him go to Jim’s funeral. He had never been to a funeral before, and he had to go alone because she was too drunk. It was held outdoors, and scantly attended as many people in the neighborhood were busy packing up their belongings in preparation for the mass exodus out of town. Johnny only recognized a couple of attendees; the tall police man who had given a presentation in his home room class just a few days before, explaining the new curfew law, and Mrs. Williams, who had no idea that her own daughters would fall victim to the strange illness that claimed the life of Johnny’s friend. Johnny thought that Fat Jim looked pretty good for a dead guy. He looked as if he had lost a few pounds, and the mortician had done such a good make-up job that Jim almost looked alive. Johnny imagined Fat Jim’s eyes opening, and it made him want to throw up.
Johnny reached deep into the pockets of his blue jeans, another hand-me-down from his brother, and pulled out 3 wrinkled one dollar bills that he had stolen from his Mom’s purse earlier in the day, after she had passed out drunk on the kitchen floor. Johnny was waiting for the Ice Cream Man, and the Ice Cream Man always came at dusk.
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