Is it finished? That question, is one I can not answer. We’ll never know if anything is ever finished, or if anything is ever done to 100%. That’s for you to decide, for your judgement. As for me, papa always told me, go with your brain. I know the saying is go with your gut but, for all intents and purposes, I’m using my brain. Papa’s thing was if you follow your heart, it’ll just end up being broken. I’m pretty sure that has been pounded into my head by my parents since the moment I could understand human speech.
I’m a writer. Plain and simple. I write all the time, everyday in fact. In school, I guess I’m what ‘cool’ kids call a social outcast. Or maybe that’s a writer’s term. Yeah, kids are too dumb these days to use a word that isn’t slang. God forbid we use a normal word right? Anyway, when I write, I’m a little bit different from everyone else. Scratch that, I’m very different. See, when a teacher say to wrote an essay, most kids panic and say screw it, you know, because they have to use their brains. Well, lucky for me, I’ve found a way around that. Instead of trying to develop a topic by myself, I use what happens with people around me everyday. Once I find something interesting enough, I start developing a unique character based off that.
When I write, I need to be alone. I can’t have any outside distractions or stoppages. I like to have all my ideas down on paper at one time, if I don’t get them all down, I’ll lose what I was thinking about at that time, then go in a different direction, and then the story becomes all screwed up.
My favorite writing spot is actually outside. In front of my house, that was actually my papa’s house before he passed. There’s an old Oak tree that provides shade across the whole front yard, perfect for writing. Everyday, I sit outside under that tree as soon as I get home from school, and just write. Nobody ever bothers me, except for one day when I was in my usual spot under the tree, I see a shiny black Porsche come screaming down the road, practically shredding the pavement, and all of a sudden, time froze.
I watched as the Porsche took a sharp left right through the stone wall my papa had built way back in 1966, and sped right towards me before coming to a screeching halt on my front lawn. Next, I saw two men hop out of the driver and passenger side doors, and come marching over to me.
These men were not normal, I could tell that was the case as soon as they got close enough I could see their faces. One man, who had to of been no shorter than 6’3, had black shades on and shoulders that reminded me of Superman, was carrying a pair of handcuffs, and I could see a pistol resting in his belt. The other gentleman, who got out of the passenger side, was dressed in a suit, he too, had black shades on, and was carrying a book of some sort.
As they got closer, the bigger guy was now standing right over me now. He backed off as the other man got down on one knee so we were face to face. He leaned in and said,
“Are you Benjamin Dyson?”
“Ye- Yes sir.”
“Excellent.”
That was the last thing I remember happening that day.
I awoke sitting in some sort of an office, and when I peeled my head off the desk, I was staring right into the stone cold eyes of the man that had been kneeling in front of me under the Oak tree.
“Now, you’re probably wondering why we brought you here, Mr. Dyson.”
“Yes, sir.” I said.
“Well, we have some information about someone you may know.”
The man was pacing back and forth behind the desk, hands folded behind his back. All the while with the other man who had driven the Porsche through his property, was standing behind him, scowl across his face.
“Mrs. Nancy Goldberg has been accused of murder.”
I froze. Nancy Goldberg was my mother. I felt like I was going to puke. I couldn’t believe it.
“Wh- Who?” I stuttered.
“Nancy Goldberg has been accused for the murder of Mr. Douglas Dyson.”
I didn’t know what to do. I hadn’t seen my mom in over 3 years, and she had told me my father had been killed in a car accident before I was born. My head was spinning and I felt like I was about to pass out. Had my mother murdered my father and she left so she wouldn’t get caught? I didn’t know, but I needed answers. But, before I could say anything, the man in the suit was holding up a picture. I didn’t recognize the face at first, but when i glanced a second time, I realized it was a mug shot of my mother.
“Does this person look familiar to you, Mr. Dyson?”
“That’s my mother.” I said, shocked.
“That’s right, Mr. Dyson. But now, she’s gone too.”
It was in that moment, that I knew, I was indeed, finished.
I’m a writer. Plain and simple. I write all the time, everyday in fact. In school, I guess I’m what ‘cool’ kids call a social outcast. Or maybe that’s a writer’s term. Yeah, kids are too dumb these days to use a word that isn’t slang. God forbid we use a normal word right? Anyway, when I write, I’m a little bit different from everyone else. Scratch that, I’m very different. See, when a teacher say to wrote an essay, most kids panic and say screw it, you know, because they have to use their brains. Well, lucky for me, I’ve found a way around that. Instead of trying to develop a topic by myself, I use what happens with people around me everyday. Once I find something interesting enough, I start developing a unique character based off that.
When I write, I need to be alone. I can’t have any outside distractions or stoppages. I like to have all my ideas down on paper at one time, if I don’t get them all down, I’ll lose what I was thinking about at that time, then go in a different direction, and then the story becomes all screwed up.
My favorite writing spot is actually outside. In front of my house, that was actually my papa’s house before he passed. There’s an old Oak tree that provides shade across the whole front yard, perfect for writing. Everyday, I sit outside under that tree as soon as I get home from school, and just write. Nobody ever bothers me, except for one day when I was in my usual spot under the tree, I see a shiny black Porsche come screaming down the road, practically shredding the pavement, and all of a sudden, time froze.
I watched as the Porsche took a sharp left right through the stone wall my papa had built way back in 1966, and sped right towards me before coming to a screeching halt on my front lawn. Next, I saw two men hop out of the driver and passenger side doors, and come marching over to me.
These men were not normal, I could tell that was the case as soon as they got close enough I could see their faces. One man, who had to of been no shorter than 6’3, had black shades on and shoulders that reminded me of Superman, was carrying a pair of handcuffs, and I could see a pistol resting in his belt. The other gentleman, who got out of the passenger side, was dressed in a suit, he too, had black shades on, and was carrying a book of some sort.
As they got closer, the bigger guy was now standing right over me now. He backed off as the other man got down on one knee so we were face to face. He leaned in and said,
“Are you Benjamin Dyson?”
“Ye- Yes sir.”
“Excellent.”
That was the last thing I remember happening that day.
I awoke sitting in some sort of an office, and when I peeled my head off the desk, I was staring right into the stone cold eyes of the man that had been kneeling in front of me under the Oak tree.
“Now, you’re probably wondering why we brought you here, Mr. Dyson.”
“Yes, sir.” I said.
“Well, we have some information about someone you may know.”
The man was pacing back and forth behind the desk, hands folded behind his back. All the while with the other man who had driven the Porsche through his property, was standing behind him, scowl across his face.
“Mrs. Nancy Goldberg has been accused of murder.”
I froze. Nancy Goldberg was my mother. I felt like I was going to puke. I couldn’t believe it.
“Wh- Who?” I stuttered.
“Nancy Goldberg has been accused for the murder of Mr. Douglas Dyson.”
I didn’t know what to do. I hadn’t seen my mom in over 3 years, and she had told me my father had been killed in a car accident before I was born. My head was spinning and I felt like I was about to pass out. Had my mother murdered my father and she left so she wouldn’t get caught? I didn’t know, but I needed answers. But, before I could say anything, the man in the suit was holding up a picture. I didn’t recognize the face at first, but when i glanced a second time, I realized it was a mug shot of my mother.
“Does this person look familiar to you, Mr. Dyson?”
“That’s my mother.” I said, shocked.
“That’s right, Mr. Dyson. But now, she’s gone too.”
It was in that moment, that I knew, I was indeed, finished.