Story 2-1

The alarm-clock sized, goldfish shaped, Goldfish cracker container stared assuredly at me as through waking eyes I stared at it. At least it would never stop smiling its black ink, faded smile. On the other hand, the rest of my world seemed to be nought but a frown. The saddened, lost-without-you faces hadn't turned upside down after my absence became apparent. I had yet to discover who the disappeared person was, but they were ruining my social life. Fucking fish, stop smiling! A swift backhand across the nightstand threw the plastic vessel and its cheesy inhabitants on a journey through the air, crushingly concluding amid the various clothings lying about my closet. Constant calling to my once merry companions via telephone was no longer an option. That is, unless I was in the mood to endure perilous showers of over-the-phone tears. These people just wouldn't get glad. Homework would be the refuge of Saturday. Ah shit. My book bag lay against the dresser, straps akimbo, a full five and three quarters feet away. I placed my heel against the bumpy, pasty white wall to my right; a meager thrust launched me from beneath the beautifully soft warmth of blankets. I stumbled from the chilly position beside my bed, a very lengthy distance before reaching the oh-so-wonderful academia.

Hell on Earth is supposedly what wierd people say will happen not so long from now, or the Department of Moter Vehicles. I am now re-titling hell on Earth: my house. Parents are vacationing, dog is long dead, cable is out, fridge is empty, clothes are needing to be laundered, computer modem is down, homework is far from done. The neighbor kid however, was home. Donning a mighty t-shirt and even mightier pants, I traveled from my front door to his and rang the doorbell accordingly. Then I rang it again. What the fuck? I knocked. Why isn't he home? Back through my front door I went, then through the back door, across the uncut lawn, and finally, over the poorly maintained back fence. Before I had trekked across the neighbors gigantor yard forest, I saw the kid through their fantastically polished french doors; rather I saw the side of him. He was hunched over on their couch, yellow hair crinkling in his thirteen year old hands. His mom came up behind him, sat down, said something. Not the best time, apparently. I suppose i'll have to stay home.