This is the continued story of
Simon’s Journal.
I would highly recommend you read the first volume of this story,
Simon’s Journal
Thirteen Days – The First Crusade
before you begin this novel.
The following narrative is nearly a complete work of
fiction.
Any similarity to actual individuals living or dead is completely
unintentional.
If reading a coming of age story about boys wearing diapers and exploring their
awakening sexuality is offensive or illegal in your area, then might I suggest
you go read War and Peace or something equally stimulating.
Simon's Journal
Volume II
Thirteen
Nights – After the Crusade
Written by
Danny
Author of Thirteen Days
Part 1 – Friday, March 12, 2004 –
And the Flames Went Higher
Sometime
in the night, I have no idea exactly when but I woke after having a kind of
funny sort of dream. I had been dreaming that I was asleep and felt like
something or someone was sitting or holding my legs. Even in my dream I could
not see who or what it was because the room was still pitch black. When I woke
up, I thought I could still feel the pressure on my legs but after thrashing
around a bit, the feeling totally vanished. Somewhat weird I know but I cannot
help what my brain down when I am asleep.
Now
that I was awake I felt like I needed to go poop and had I been at home I
probably would have just let it go right there in my diaper and let mom or dad
cleaned me up in the morning. However, I am not at home and I honestly don’t
want to give my five bunkmates any more reason to not like me.
So,
I slowly got myself out of bed and managed to find my way through the darkness to
the door of our room. It was by sheer luck that I made it to the door that lead
into the bathroom without getting lost. I had held to the wall and followed it
around to the right until I found a door. The whole time I was trying to
remember if I had seen any other doors before the bathroom door but couldn’t
pull up the image in my mind.
Given
that I have a very slender build, the diaper slipped right off my hips like
underwear and fell to my ankles softly. I had not wet the diaper so far this
night but I put that down to the fact that I had so little to drink yesterday
and had sweated out probably ten times what I took in.
Just
as had happened the previous morning, the second my butt cheeks hit the toilet
seat my bum opened up and out fired a continuous stream of diarrhea.
“Whelp
there goes whatever water was left in me!” I whispered to myself.
Wiping
my backside when I was finished proved impossible this time and for two
reasons. The first was because; once again, I was wearing my armor, which was
restricting the amount of movement I was able to perform. The second reason was
that my body ached so desperately from having been forced to shovel trash all
day yesterday.
Now
I know my backside was pretty filthy after the way the diarrhea had splashed
all over me and I knew I had to do something. I sat for several minutes
thinking and thinking before the solution came to me.
Not
wanting to get the diaper all poop covered, I chose to not pull it back up but
instead slipped my feet out of it, rolled it up and tucked it under one arm
before leaving the bathroom and heading for the room where Cho had bathed and
diapered me the last two days.
Oddly
enough I was very thankful for all the darkness because had someone been up
there was no way they could have seen me streaking my way through the halls.
When
I reached what I was sure was the door to the kitchen, I took hold of the knob
and turned it. It opened but not quietly. It gave out an eerie creak, as it
swung open. I froze and listen for the sounds of someone coming to check out
the sound but no other sounds could be heard.
I
backed into the kitchen and slowly as I could to keep the creaking sound to a
minimum, I pushed the door until it was almost latched.
When
I turned around, I discovered I was not in the kitchen at all but was in what
appeared to be an office that was totally out of place here in the Bancheli
Orphanage.
The
room was decked out with expensive furnishings of the finest quality. A huge
cherry wood desk sat in the middle of the room backed by a wall of shelves
filled with all sorts of odd trinkets each displayed under a glass dome.
Sitting
to the left side of the desk was a long goose necked desk lamp which was on and
allowing me to take in all of what I was seeing now.
The
floor was a polished wood that seemed to reflect everything that sat on it like
a darkened mirror. Directly above the floor hung an expensive looking
chandelier from a cathedral style ceiling with exposed beams and white painted
boards. The room with all of its furnishings and decorations made me feel like
I was in a castle rather then the Bancheli Orphanage for Boys.
Suddenly
I was very aware of my nudity and the fact that I was no longer clothed by the
darkness. I decided to leave and go find the washroom so that I could hose off
my backside.
As
I was about to open the door again, I heard what I thought was the sound of
someone walking toward the door.
“Someone
must have heard the door after all!” I whimpered to myself.
I turned
and quickly looked for a place to hide but the only place that might offer any
concealment was the desk. I scampered around it and just in the nick of time
had ducked under it as the door to this office swung open.
“Come
in and bring the boy with you!” I heard the voice of Mr. Wriggle say.
“Never
been in here before!” I knew that voice. It was the same voice I had come to
know as belonging to one of my captors. I was sure it was Segal.
“I
don’t mind telling you that I don’t like this at all! No notice of your
arrival! No message from Madam M that you were bringing this boy to us! No I
don’t like it at all!” Mr. Wriggle said as he voice grew closer and closer to
where I was hiding.
I
nearly fainted dead away when Mr. Wriggle sat down in the desk chair and pulled
in close enough that his left knee was only inches from my face. But what was
even scarier was the fact that apparently in his haste he did not have time to
put on pants for under his rob which left me an excellent view of his old
shriveled manhood parts. Had I any food in my belly at that moment I probably
would have vomited on his crotch.
I
closed my eyes and prayed that I would not be found.
“I
am terribly sorry Mr. Wriggle but given that he’s so hot and the police and FBI
are dogging us so much right now, Madam M felt it safer if he were in your
care.” Segal said sounding almost humble.
“Well
I still don’t like it!” Mr. Wriggle grumbled and pounded the desk.
I
could hear the whimpering sobs of what sounded like a very young child followed
by the sound of flesh against flesh. “Stop that you filthy little shit!” Segal
grunted sounding more like a bear then a man just then.
“That
will be quite enough of that!” Mr. Wriggle had jumped to his feet at the sound
of Segal hitting the child. “You have done your duty, I will take the boy from
here! Now get out and tell Madam M that if she ever sends you here again our
dealings are threw!”
Segal
said nothing and I only knew he was gone by the sound of angry footsteps, the
door creaking open and then closed again.
Mr.
Segal sat himself back down but thankfully did not pull himself in close again.
Instead he sat, reclining back and was motionless for quite some time.
When
the door to the office creaked open once more, I quickly recognized by the sound
of his voice that it was Fyer the cook that had entered.
“Oh
I’m glad to see you Fyer!” Mr. Wriggle said standing up again, “It’s very late
and I am very tired. Please see that this boy is entered into the books and
found a bed at once.”
“Tha’z
non m’ job!” Fyer said angrily.
“Fyer
just do it!” Mr. Wriggle said sounding very weary.
Fyer
sounding as big as he is small, “Ain’t non room! All filled up!”
“What?”
Mr. Wriggle moaned loudly.
“Non
no room!” Fyer repeated.
Mr.
Wriggle’s voice rose to shouting, “I don’t give a dam what you do with him;
just put him somewhere! I’ll worry about him tomorrow!”
Fyer
did not respond but it did sound like he left and took the boy with him because
I could no longer hear the sobbing of the boy.
I
sighed a huge relief when Mr. Wriggle too left the office, turning off the desk
lamp and closing the door behind him.
I
waited several more minutes before moving just to be sure no one would be
returning. I crawled out form under the desk, reached out to where I knew the
lamp was a clicked it on again.
Assuming
Fyer had taken the boy to be washed before taking him to bed I figured I could
not chance going that way and resigned myself to going to bed with a poopy
bottom. Also deciding the risk was too great at being discovered wondering the
halls naked, I unrolled the diaper, held it open and stepped back into it.
Maybe
I shouldn’t have done it but as I was about to leave I notice sitting on the
desk was a yellow tablet of paper and a very fancy ink pen. I am not sure what
made me reach over and scoop them up but I did just before escaping form the
office and making my way back to the room.
The
hallway lights were all on now, which only made me move all that much faster
for fear that Fyer or Mr. Wriggle were still out of bed. As I descended the
steps, I realized the lights below were not on and exhaled another sigh of
relief because I knew I was safe again.
Back
in my bed, the tablet of paper and pen safely stashed under my pillow, I lay
staring into the blackness and breathing hard from having nearly been caught. I
thought about the boy Segal had just delivered and how scared he must be right
now.
I
realized after laying there for quiet some time that I was not going to be able
to get back to sleep anytime soon so instead I decided that I would go a head
and get up again. Now that I had the paper and pen I decided I was going to go
back to the toilets where there was light and attempt to write down everything
that had been happening since leaving home. I figured that if I could recorded
everything and keep it hid from everyone, when I did manage to escape from here
I could give it to the police as evidence against Segal, the Wriggles and
everyone else.
I
also decided that just in case it was closer to morning then I thought, I would
get dressed. So I once again stripped off my diaper, leaving it rolled up and
laying on the floor by my bed before caring all of my clothes and shoes to the
bathroom with me along with the pad and pen where I could dress myself and see
what I was doing.
Boy
was I right about getting dressed because as it turned out, I had spent the
rest of the night writing. I was sitting on the very last toilet all the way at
the end of the row writing when I heard the first bells.
Brrrannng!
Brrrannng! Brrrannng!
As
quickly as I could, I stuffed the tablet under my shirt and slipped the pen
into my right shoe. I had just got my pants pulled down and my bottom back on
the seat when the second bell rang out followed by three of my five bunkmates
entering into the toilets all sleepy eyed.
“Oi,
der ‘e is!” Jonathan had said when he saw me, “Told ya he didn’t run'way!”
Aside
from this small observation by Jonathan, the boys paid no attention to me at
all this morning. No one even appeared to have notice the top of my plastic
armor peaking out of the collar of my dirty, smelly shirt or at least, if
anyone did, it was certain that no one said anything about it. When I left and
returned to our room to, once again, stash the notebook and pen, nobody looked
at me and I tried not to look at them as well. It seemed, after all, that there
was nothing I could do to change how they felt about me, which I still could
not completely understand.
There
was still, however, one thing I could try to do and that was not to be the last
one to arrive in the dining hall that morning. And though hurting all over and
by now, weak from hunger as well, I somehow managed to dress quickly enough to
find boys still in the hall when I arrived there. Several boys arrived behind
me in the food line, panting and trying there best not to draw attention to
themselves.
If
only I could have done something about the meal itself! Once again I was
presented with the same bowl of oatmeal, which was by now almost as hard as the
bowl itself. I could barely dig my spoon into it, and three more bites were all
I could manage to break off from the oatmeal rock. I told myself that at least
I would have the dry lump of corn bread at the noon meal.
I
was almost prepared mentally for a repeat or yesterday at the plastic factory;
however, I had not counted on one thing; that as grim as yesterday was, today
would be even worse. What I had done the day before was to shovel trash into
the fires with an odd sort of shovel to keep them stoked and thus allowing
those working overhead to be able to melt the plastic pellets for a reason that
I still do not understand.
When
we arrived for work this morning at the plastic factory, Harpo announced to me
that I would be doing something different. "It's a promotion, you might
say." He said with a leer that announced just what he thought of the
promotion he was about to bestow on me. "You're about to take a hand at
bein' a little carrier pigeon!” he turned his head to one side and spit, “Ain't
that nice?"
I
smiled up at him; I actually smiled at him for taking me away from that flesh
oven job! Oh and I wasn’t the only one that Harpo pulled aside either, there
wear three of us that were going to be acting as “Carrier pigeons”.
With
a throat clearing snort and another spit Harpo educated us to the fact that
yesterday we got off easy and that today, instead of playing ‘Trash Boy’, we
were to carrying two buckets of plastic pellets at a time up nineteen steps to
be gradually dumped into the cauldrons by other boys.
I
know the exact number of steps because, with every trip, I counted them in my
head and by my third trip up the stairs I felt like I was going to pass out from
exhaustion and not just from the carrying but also from the lack of proper
rest, food and water.
“Carrier
pigeons?” One of the boy’s groaned to me as we passed on the stairs.
“Oh,
what a lovely, friendly sounding name for such a wonderful job!” he said
sarcastically as he continued climbing, “Well if I am a bird, then I should
just fly myself out of here!”
By
the time Harpo was lining us all up to take us back to the orphanage, I was
hurting so bad that I just wanted to find somewhere quiet to lie down and die.
I don’t mean that lightly, I mean that I honestly and truly wanted to die.
I
think I might have been sleeping while we were walking through the damp evening
air because I don’t remember the first half of our procession back to the
orphanage. I did however notice that the pavement beneath my feet was wet and I
guessed that it must have rained while we were toiling away in the factory.
When
we turned a corner after emerging from one of the alleys, two notable things
happened; the first is what drew me to the second.
I
was watching how the laces of my right shoe seemed to fly around with each step
almost as though they were alive and thoroughly enjoying the brisk walk. I had
to take a small hop to avoid a puddle of water when out of the corner of my eye
I saw something moving very fast. When I looked, there was nothing there except
a couple dented metal trash dumpsters and an old black homeless guy laying next
to it curled up in a ball and covered up with newspapers to keep warm.
I
probably would not have even remembered the black man had I not seen this mangy
cat come from out of nowhere and jump right on the man scaring him near to
death and causing him to scatter his paper blanket everywhere. Now, I only saw
the cat for maybe three seconds at most but it was long enough for me to get a
good look at him. For some reason I felt like I had seen that cat before but
couldn’t remember ever seeing a cat since I had arrived in this town, wherever
it is I am at now.
In
a flash the cat was gone leaving the homeless guy scrambling on hands and knees
for his newspaper blanket and swearing in muttered gibberish at being
disturbed.
While
watching the man curl himself back up into a ball, I happened to see a girl
sweeping in front of a small shop only a few doors away. Three rough looking
young boys had picked a quarrel with her, and were now pulling on her broom to
get it away from her. However, since they were not all pulling together, she
was still able to keep a hold of the one end while scolding and threatening
them.
I
had not thought, I just reacted to the injustice of what I was witnessing and
before I knew it, I was out of line and running to the aid of the girl. I got
hold of the broom at her end and pulled along with her. This action only served
to agitate the boys, driving them to take rougher measures, and that is when
one of them hit me dead on the sneezer and made it bleed. Since I couldn’t let
go of the broom to mind my nose, I was soon a dreadful bloody figure to behold.
Harpo
must have heard the scuffle, looked around to see what it was and saw that I
was missing. I am sure he had to look twice before he could be sure that I was
one of his lambs that had strayed from the pack and was now in the middle of
the tumult of wolves in boy’s clothing. I had not seen him coming but a mater
of seconds after one of the boy’s had jumped on me, Harpo had rushed in and
sent the delinquents flying in all directions. I remember how the boy, the one
who had hit me in the nose and who was the one that was taunting the girl the
most, went flying through the air and made what looked to be a very painful
landing in the same puddle of water in the middle of the street that minutes
ago I had hopped over.
The
girl, without thanking Harpo or me for helping her, began sweeping as if
nothing had happened while Harpo drug me back to the other boys who were all
huddled together staring at me with mouths open and eyes bulging.
With
the help of a leaking fire hydrant, I was soon washed into a mild decency and
Harpo put me back into line and stuck a finger into my face.
I
was talking before I realized that my mouth was even open, “I couldn’t let them
beat up that girl?” It came out sounding more like a question then a statement.
That
stunned Harpo for several seconds before he dropped his finger, reached into my
jacket pocket and retreated the dirty rag that had contained my lunch earlier
today. He put the rag in my hand and put my hand to my nose.
“Pinch
your nose and keep your head tilted back. It will stop presently.” He said and
without another word, we were off again.
Ding,
ding, ding, ding, ding! Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding!
The
sound of Mr. Wriggle's spoon beating on the tin cup suddenly rang out in the
dining hall. This was not the usual three beats signaling the end of our meal,
nor were any of us boys finished emptying our bowls of our evening stew.
Nonetheless, we all set their spoons down, every head swiveling with fixed,
wary eyes to face Mr. Wriggle. Every head that is, except the one belonging to
me, sitting seemingly paralyzed in my seat. I had not set my spoon down beside
my rock hard bowl of oatmeal either, because I had never picked it up in the
first place, being half dead—no, more like three-quarters dead—when I had
arrived back from the factory. All the while, I had just sat motionless, with
my eyes fixed vacantly on the remaining lump of oatmeal before me.
Oddly
enough, I can remember that a few minutes before Mr. Wriggle had banged on his
tin cup, I had seen and even over heard him talking rather animatedly to Fyer
the dwarf cook about the boy that had been delivered last night. Up until then,
I had completely forgot about the boy and about my late night adventure.
“Fyer?”
Mr. Wriggle had called the cook over to where he and Mrs. Wriggle were sitting.
When
he arrived at their table Mr. Wriggle had said, “I don’t see that boy.”
“Wha’
boy?” Fyer grumpily replied.
Mr.
Wriggle rolled his eyes, “The one from last night?”
“Oh!
Yeah, got ‘im tak'n care'a!” Fyer said motioning over his shoulder toward the
kitchen.
At
this, Mrs. Wriggle began to pay attention to the two men’s conversation. She
had been sitting and staring at us boys with a loathing like that of a child
who’s parents are trying to get them to eat vegetables.
“What
do you mean by ‘taken care of’?” Mrs. Wriggle asked in her usually drawn out
tone.
Fyer
got a queer look about him, peered over his shoulder at all the boys and then
back to the Wriggles, “Wot ya ‘ink dey eat’n?”
In
an instant Mrs. Wriggle began to turn a brilliant shade of green while Mr.
Wriggle just sat there looking dumbfounded. Fyer, unable to keep a straight
face broke out laughing so loud that nearly every boy had looked up momentarily
from his bowl.
With
hands on his large apron clad belly Fyer laughed and rocking back on his heals
merrily he bellowed, “No, no!” and continued to laugh, “He in da ‘it!” Fyer was
wiping at his face with his sausage like fingers in an attempt to wipe away his
tears of laughter.
In
a serous huff at being tricked, Mrs. Wriggle threw a fork at Fyer who amazingly
caught it right out of the air and stopped laughing in that instantly.
Mr.
Wriggle, with head bent slightly forward, was holding the bridge of his nose
and shaking his head from side to side, “You put him in the pit?” he asked
dolefully forgetting to keep his voice down.
“Yup!”
Fyer said again smiling.
“And
he’s been in there all night and day?” Mr. Wriggle continued to question.
“’Magine
so.” Fyer said picking at his teeth with the fork that Mrs. Wriggle had thrown
at him.
Dawning
a look of exasperation Mr. Wriggle sat back in his seat and asked, “And don’t
you think maybe you should go and get him now?”
“’Ope!
Tain’t m’job! Ya wa’em, g’gee ‘em!” Fyer said slipping the fork into the pocket
of his apron and walking away still chuckling merrily to himself for having put
off Mr. Wriggle in front of everyone.
Not
needing to be asked or told to do so, Cho ran from the room, well ran isn’t
exactly the right word to use; I suppose it would be better to say that she
slunked hastily from the room, hardly allowing her lame foot to hinder her.
I
think Mr. Wriggle had forgot why he had banged on his cup because as soon as
Cho had left the room he and Mrs. Wriggle both sat facing one another and
whispering so quietly that it was like watching TV with the sound turned all
the way down.
We
boys had all gone back to eating, well not me, I sat there staring at the
Wriggles and not even considering my petrified oatmeal.
It
wasn’t long before Cho could be heard returning from retrieving the boy Fyer
had disposed of last night. However, even before she reentered the room, a
smell like nothing I have ever smelled began to ooze in a head of her. Mrs.
Wriggle had stopped talking to her husband who was still muttering on about
something. She had raised a napkin to her nose and was looking toward the door
to see where the smell was coming from.
Gasps
and groans from the boys could be heard as the stench permeated their nostrils.
Mr. Wriggle had stopped talking and turned to look in the same direction that
his wife was gawking toward.
From
the opposite direction I heard a clank and a small splash that caused me to
turn my head just in time to see Fyer was lifting his pot and escaping to his kitchen.
I was astounded that such a small man could lift such a big kettle. It was just
last night that I, along with one other boy, had struggled to get it to the
kitchen to be scrubbed clean.
“Oh
good heavens!” Exclaimed Mrs. Wriggle.
One
of the boys closest to the door instantly got sick into his dinner bowl just as
Cho was walking back into the room dragging what resembled a small child.
“What
on earth?” Mr. Wriggle shouted while jumping to his feet again.
Two
other boys, at seeing the first boy get sick also lost there dinner but managed
to miss their bowls and nicely covered the table in vomit as well as several
other boys in the process.
“Mus’a
fall’n in!” Cho said looking worried that Mr. Wriggle might strike her.
Mrs.
Wriggle rose from her chair and raced from the room with her cheeks bulging and
both hands clamped over her mouth.
Mr.
Wriggle was looking in a bit of distress himself. I had an expression on his
face that said that if he were to open his mouth to say another word, he too
would be sick. With one hand covering his mouth and two fingers from his other
hand pinching his nose, he somehow managed to groan out a broken sentence, “Go
. . . hose . . . now!” with a couple very colorful words thrown in for added
drama of course.
For
some reason, the smell and the boy, though both very grotesque did not make me
sick in the least. Maybe it was because there wasn’t really anything in my
stomach for me to vomit out. I sat looking at this—well boy, thought he barely
looked to be human in his current condition. The reason being was that every
single bit of the boy was covered in, what I was guessing was, human, or maybe
animal waste. From the hairs on his head to the tips of his toes, he was caked
in the filth. In many movies I have seen, when someone was covered in mud, the
movie people always seemed to leave the area around the eyes, nostrils and
mouth clear. However, this boy was obviously the real deal. I could see one eye
was caked over with poop and it seemed to be dripping out of his nose too. As
for his mouth, I couldn’t even make it out though I assumed he did have one.
What amazed me more then the fact that Cho had brought him in to where we were
dining while looking and smelling the way he did, was that the boy, despite being
head to tow in poop, he also appeared to be completely without clothes.
No
sooner had Mr. Wriggle ordered Cho to take the boy away then she was leading
the boy back out the door with Mr. Wriggle hot on her heals.
This
fact seemed to escape the notice of all the other boys, as they were all
appearing to be on the verge of being sick themselves, some from the stench and
some from the vomit that covered our table. I think I was the only one that
realized we were no longer being watched by anyone of authority.
However,
that didn’t last long, because maybe ten seconds later Mrs. Wriggle came
rushing back in looking extremely put out. She quickly took charge of the
growing pandemonium by sending two of the older boys to go get mops and buckets
to clean up the vomit from the floor and table as well as the trail of filth
left by the boy.
Needless
to say, dinner was over. No one was interested in eating anymore but we were
still not dismissed. Every boy was made to stand up and stay standing while the
messes were cleaned up. One of the boys that was mopping the vomit from under
our table looked like he was right on the edge of breaking out laughing and I
am sure if anyone made so much as a peep he would have lost control too.
Mr.
Wriggle’s return was proceeded by vulgarity that echoed through the corridors
of the orphanage and the words he was spewing out would have made a sailor
blush and in fact did make Mrs. Wriggle turn red, However it wasn’t from
embarrassment but from anger.
Mr.
Wriggle burst through the half open door with a furry, passed through cursing
all the while and exited through the door that lead into the kitchen where
several more poisonous words were thrown about by both he and Fyer. The yelling
finally stopped when the sound of a large pot or pan clamoring against the wall
was heard soon followed by the retreat of Mr. Wriggle from the kitchen.
One
of the boys that were gathering up our bowls happened to be within reach of Mr.
Wriggle and for no good reason he received a shove that sent half a dozen bowls
and their remaining contents careening to the floor.
Curiously
enough, the boy did not seem to reach to this treatment but instead dropped to
his knees and began picking up the bowls again while one of the other boys who was
wielding one of the mops helped to clean up the bits of leftover dinner on the
floor.
When
I saw the bits of potato on the floor my stomach gave out a gurgle of longing.
I suppose that is a sign of just how hungry I was after two days of hardly
anything but a little cornbread and water for nourishment.
I’m
probably a pretty demented person because unlike all the other boys who were
either green or looking scared or both; I was finding the whole thing quite
amusing and couldn’t wait for what would happen next.
I
didn’t have to wait very long before Mr. Wriggle, who had been standing facing
his wife, and had now spun around with an extended finger as though he were
wielding a gun and spat out, “Empty your pockets!” the words seemed to exploded
from his mouth as if from a cannon and causing his red face to quiver from the
reverberation.
Immediately,
all of the boys thrust their hands into their trousers' pockets and pulled them
inside out. Anything that might have been residing in anyone’s pockets was then
laid on the table before each boy. Still in a daze, I mimicked the actions of
the others and pulled out my own trousers' pockets. They were empty of course,
but I was surprised to see that others from around the table were not.
Pitiful
evidence of young boys' interests appeared on the table: a bent nail, several
uninteresting pebbles, a length of dirty twine, a medium sized black feather
probably from a crow, a shared of blue glass, a chain made of assorted
paperclips, a faded and worn photograph and several bits of torn paper.
I
couldn’t help but notice that there was only one thing that was dug from a
pocket that had any value at all; it was a quarter. It was not bright, not new,
and was tarnished and dented, but nonetheless a quarter.
It
had come from Micky's pocket, and it now lay on the table in front of him.
Well, not quite in front of him since at dinner he had been sitting next to me,
it now lay halfway between him and me, or close enough to halfway that who
could tell the difference?
A
quarter! A miserable little, near worthless, quarter! However, at that moment,
in this horrible place, it seemed to be more important than a stack of hundred
dollar bills or a bar of solid gold.
Next Installment:
** For the latest news on how each installment is coming along as well as answers to questions
asked by other
readers and so much more, visit me at www.talkhard.5u.com.
As always, your thoughts matter to me very, very much, so please send any
comments,
questions, suggestions, or criticism to me at: [email protected] and I promise
that I will reply
personally to everyone that takes the time to write to me! **