Hey. So, I'm thinking about enrolling in the creative writing program at the local College. I've been neglecting my reading and writing (stories ) for awhile now, and I'm afraid I'm a little rusty and... under-developed. So, I wrote the beginnings of a story last night. This is the first draft, let me know what you think. It's called Emily's Playhouse:

Quote:

If there is one thing that he can depend on his father for, it is that Timothy Weinstrom will fail to live up to his word. Thomas strolled through the underbrush of the great wilderness that was his backyard, reflecting on the recent string of heated disputes between he and his father, and the events that had led to such an unpleasant living situation as this. A familiar cedar tree, its branches twisted closely together like serpents in a loving embrace, caught his eye as he stumbled across a fallen redwood and started towards a large clearing ahead. Here the thick canopy overhead gave way to wave after wave of golden sunlight, which Thomas gratefully basked in. He paused for a moment to appreciate the warmth it exuded on his bare arms and neck, forgetting all about his father and this dreadful backwater community for just a momentary glimpse of bliss. I should have worn a sweater, he thought, as the chill wind howled just outside of the clearing, weaving its way through thickets of blackberry bushes and towering alders. Nevertheless, Thomas was confident in his ability to navigate this ancient forest, sweater or no sweater, despite the fact that he had yet to venture past this clearing, nearly a stones throw from his home. Today was different. Today was to be a day of exploration, a day of intrigue.

Fumbling through his pants pocket, Thomas withdrew a small circular timepiece, dangling from a golden chain. A gift from his father, Thomas thought begrudgingly. Six O'Clock; there was time enough, he decided. Today's destination would be the babbling stream that cut deep into the heart of the woods. From there, it would be a simple matter of following the stream uphill, where it would lead him back to the village before dark. The village. He nearly shuddered at the very thought of that filthy excuse for a home. His father had promised him New York City, and instead had delivered Lincoln, Georgia. Thomas longed to return to the spectacles of the World Fair, the bright lights of Broadway, and the towering figure of the Statue of Liberty, but instead he was to be content with drunken yokels, reading by candlelight, and an endless monotony of forestry and rocky cliffs. Most of all, though, Thomas missed his friends; he missed his mother. It had been several years since she had lost her bout with smallpox, and Thomas' father had been forced to relocate to another state, and another, and another. New York was expensive, and a schoolmaster's salary was not adequate, at least not until Thomas was old enough to get a job of his own. He hated the man for insisting that his son complete an education before pursuing work, and he hated him even more for the absence of his mother.

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