I have an idea for a story but it isn't completely formed yet. I wrote a bit just to mess around.?
I'm not sure if I should try some more or not. I've only ever had one story that I actually stuck with before and I'm still working on it, but this is just another idea. This bit doesn't give you an idea of what it's about but please tell me what you think anyways. Thanks. HERE IS:
July 25, 2011,
Ms. Garza handed me a small black book that looked like it could be about a hundred years old and I took it wearily. I don’t like Crazy Garcia at all. “Your new foster parent wants you to write in this. Don’t ask me why.” Her blubbery voice crackled in boredom.
“Foster parent?” Parent. As in only one? I thought.
“I said, don’t ask me questions kid.” She snapped.
“Sorry.” I mumbled in reflex.
“C’mon.” Hissed the old lady. As fat as she was her face still looked hollow and gaunt as she waddled out the door, leaving me to drag my suitcase, pillow, and giant duffle bag all in one. Everything I owned.
Crazy Garcia tapped her foot impatiently as I dragged my belongings across the gravelly parking lot to her pink ’67 Cadillac. She couldn’t wait to get rid of me.
Well I can’t wait to get rid of you either, you witch, I thought. I would’ve said it out loud, but I needed the ride.
Forty-five minutes later the Cadillac’s engine was stalling outside Salt Lake City International Airport.
“Here” Crazy Garcia said and shoved a ticket into my already full hands.
“Wha--- what?” I stuttered. “No. No, you can’t leave me here!”
“Your flight is the 1:45 to Columbus, Ohio.”
“Ohio!” I gulped.
“Go on.” She said, bored by my worried charade.
“Hold on….” I was really starting to panic now. “I’ve never been to an airport in my life. I’ve never been on a plane, ever. Please! I’m terrified of flying.”
Crazy Garza only smirked as she put the gear in reverse.
“See you kid.”
“Please don’t leave me!” Was I really begging Crazy Garcia not to go away?
“I’ve got things to do…” Was the last I heard from her as her car flew away from the curb.
I stood there shaking for a good ten minutes, my things scattered around me. “What the hell” was all I could think. Was I even going to be adopted or had that just been a ploy to get rid of me?
People milled around me busily, luggage in tow. Some stood by the doors smoking that last puff of cigarette.
I gulped the smoky air, anxiously. It was 12:15. I couldn’t be sure, but I don’t think that gave me a whole lot a time. I gathered my things and stepped through the sliding doors. I was greeted by about a million more people swarming around in bunches. It was the first time I even had a chance to discover I was claustrophobic. I went to the closet desk were a bored looking lady with tired eyes was sitting, pulling at her frizzy hair.
“Excuse me,” I mumbled my voice was pathetically small. “Could you tell me where I need to go to get to this flight?”
“Terminal C, gate 133, take a left down there and follow the sign.” Her voice was nasally, just like Crazy Garcia’s and she talked to me like I was stupid.
Where kids even allowed on flights by themselves? Great another thing to worry about, I thought as I slipped into a line where people were taking off their shoes and putting their bags in gray containers. Everyone looked bored and tired like they had done it a thousand times.
- Anonymous1 decade agoFavorite Answer
sorry but this just seems like a juvenile collection of thoughts rather than a coherent story. It's not helped that youchange the name from Garza to Garcia in the first 2 lines!