Sunday, November 10, 2013

Do you want to meet Dom Sanders?

Boy, oh boy has National Novel Writing Month been fun, despite the horrific news of a dear friend's death this past week.  My novel is right on track and I have attended two local write ins, one as a write-athon and completed over 3000 words in four hours.  My modern Tom Sawyer is coming to life rapidly and I am having fun tying in memories of both my sister and now, Kevin.

Here's a little excerpt for all my readers!



           The very thought of returning to Pathfinders after being rejected by Emma burned me like a hot marshmallow, that sticky tingle that takes a while to wipe away.  Who needs to learn to tie knots or sing psalms anyways?  I spent the hour before knocking rocks around the driveway with my aluminum bat, the way I always do when I am upset.  I have come up with some of my best ideas that way.  Mom’s enthusiasm for the meeting's approach, and child-free time too, just made me want to go even less.  And then Taylor and Jane climbed into the truck with us, and it was all I could do to not say a word.
            The heavy wooden doors of the church were propped open this time, spilling out the chaos it couldn’t contain.  As the others and me crammed into the space, we realized why. It was hot in there. A group of girls, including the one I was trying to avoid, were chasing each other in and out of the building, tagging and dancing away in a fit of giggles.  The group leaders seemed to be trying to get the attention of the few children gathered around them.  Taking advantage of the scene, I started hawking my wares to the boys I had met here last week: a new hot wheel, a pet toad, and two rubber balls I had traded Barry Boot for on Sunday.  And the money rolled in.
            A shrill whistle filled out ears, and for a moment the noise paused.  Then the wave of bodies made for the foyer where lines started forming.  But a certain girl and her friend continued to play tag, dodging between people.  Her hair slapped her face as she laughed and lunged by me to avoid being touched by Redhead, and she bumped into a life-sized statue of Jesus standing watch over all of us.  It swayed, tipped and crashed to the floor, littering the carpet with shards of ceramic.
            Dozens of children gasped.  Ms. MaryAnn shrieked in dismay, and dashed over to pick up a piece of it.
            “Who did this?” she demanded. “Tell me right now!” She glared at Emma and her friend, and if it had been possible, smoke would have poured from her ears.
            “I-I-I,” Emma stuttered.
            I thought serves her right, the way she snubbed me last week. I wanted to stay angry, but I felt bad for her, and suddenly I realized it was my opportunity to be her hero. And she would bat those beautiful eyes as me and tell me how wonderful I was, even if I can’t sing too good.
            “I did it!” I shot up my hand and shouted.
            “You, Dominic?” Ms. MaryAnn turned on me with a raised eyebrow.
            “Yes, I was angry and I shoved it over.” I said, glancing at Emma to see her reaction, content to see the fear relieved and admiration replace it.
            “Well,” Ms. MaryAnn said with uncertainty “What a wicked thing to do if you did!  The bible says everything is God’s, and here you have broken something of His with your temper.  How will I explain this to the Pastor when he comes to see our group tonight?”

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