I found this story of mine in my dad’s things after he died. It’s hand-written on notebook paper, a school assignment, and why he saved it, I have no idea. I wasn’t intending to be a writer when I was in 4th grade. If you’d told me I was going to write novels, I would have looked at you like you’d said I was going to grow wings.
It’s rather Hemingway-esque in its simplicity, and I present it to you as written, complete with ellipses, time shifts, and crazy exclamation points.
A man. A half dead man. The man was on an island. he hadn’t intended this. He was on a boat, a big boat. It had wrecked here, here on this island, killing everyone but him. How he hated this place!
There was a small piece of the boat left. He was someday, someday, he was going [to] use it to leave, and he felt the time was now!
He was out on the ocean, waves tossing and turning. Sharks were all around him. He felt so hopeless.
Suddenly all was still. The waves stopped. The sharks left. It was like someone had turned it all off. He was gone. Gone to a world with no pain . . . no hurt . . . . . . . . . . gone . . . gone . . . . . . . . .
by Kirstin Cronn
(What drama! What exposition! He felt the time was now!)
(Seriously, it’s OK to laugh. I was a hyperbolic child. And sharks? In Nebraska?)
(Thank heavens for revision.)