I've been cleaning out my room lately since I'll be moving out in August. The biggest problem area I've found is this huge window seat that is full to the brim of old notebooks and papers that contain stories and poetry I wrote as a little girl. Some of these stories have a lot of potential and have even inspired me with some interesting ideas. Some of them are cute. Some are just funny. I thought I'd share a few of these stories with you as I proceed to clean out this messy, messy window seat. I'll be sure to add my opinion of the stories in red to both offer tips for new writers and to make fun of myself. ;)
I found this next story in an otherwise nearly empty notebook. I remember writing this when I was in eighth grade, so about four or five years ago. This is all that was in the notebook. It made me laugh, so I thought I'd share it with you guys.
“Jacoby, wake up. Jacoby.”
Jacoby groaned as her senses sharpened and the cloudy haze of slumber slipped out of her mind. She was lying on her stomach in the hot sand, her face turned to the side. Ocean foam lapped at her shoes, although the area around her upper body was dry. Her raft had floated away to who knows where and a damp blanket was tangled around her ankles.
“Am I home?” Jacoby asked hoarsely, (I don't know how on earth she could mistake being asleep on the beach for being at home) sitting up and brushing sand off her clothes. Grit had imprinted a light design in her cheek, and she knew her hair was hanging stiff down her back in tangles. What a night.
“Jacoby, good grief. Are you okay? Are you hurt or do you just randomly fall asleep on the beach?” Sterling (I'm not a big fan of the names so far. I like the name Sterling and I like the name Jacoby, but being the first two characters in a story makes the names seem way too out-there) was standing a few yards away, her arms folded across her chest as she watched Jacoby struggle for orientation. (And I have to add... if I saw my friend unconscious on the beach, half in the water, I wouldn't be standing several feet away, watching. I would probably panic and then try to help.)
“I'm fine,” Jacoby muttered, and Sterling tossed her a water bottle. Jacoby popped open the seal and chugged it, (She chugged the seal?) closing her eyes with pleasure as the cold water poured down her throat. She stood slowly, kicking off the blanket, and stretched her aching back and shoulders. “Okay, I'm ready.”
Sterling led the way up the beach, her fiery-red hair glinting in the sun. Two dirt bikes were waiting patiently on the dirt path, (How did they get there? Surely Sterling couldn't have brought both of them together... and while we're questioning things, how on earth would Sterling know to find Jacoby on that beach?) and Sterling mounted her bike with skill. (Oh brother.) The black and silver vehicle was her treasure, which she affectionately called Monster when she was staying at the compound.
Sterling was seventeen and almost too old for the Special League, (The Special League? Really?) but she claimed she would stay and work as a trainer the day she turned eighteen. She was small for her size and almost spritely, and Blain often called her Pixie, which she hated. She was the best shot of the thirteen children, and also the oldest, and she considered her seniority a big deal. Nobody was absolutely positive if Sterling was her real name except for Scout, (another weird name) and he sure wasn't telling, so Sterling she remained.
And that's all I've got. Ohhh.... man. It's hard to believe how much my writing has improved in only four or five years. I like a few of my descriptions in this piece, but everything else deserves to be archived in the "funny childhood stories" files forever and ever and ever.