Here are first paragraphs from six books I have written.
SAMANTHA STRUTHERS AND THE NIGHT PATROL
CHAPTER 1
Alexander Gracknoff
It all started on my 11th Birthday. My name is Samantha Struthers. I was lying in bed that night looking at the pen, a gift from Daddy. My dad, David Struthers, and my mom, Mildred, thought it a perfectly natural gift for a girl who drew on everything. At age two I was already drawing on the walls of the bathroom with the permanent magic marker. Perfectly natural.
Did they know the totally unnatural qualities of that pen? Surely if they had, they would have turned on the gas fireplace and held a brief, very brief ceremony before the cremation. The smell of burning plastic would have been horrific!
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CHAINMAIL
1.
I marched up the metal steps to our trailer in Space 7 gripping the smudged, yellow sheet of paper that I yanked from its envelope at the mailbox. The steps clanked under my black, canvas tennis shoes like rusty armor in a swordfight. I was ready for battle. I stomped across the kitchen. The trailer wobbled. I tossed the wadded envelope into the trash can and slammed the page down on the table. “You said he died!”
Mom dropped her spatula into a pan of sizzling hamburgers. The stove flame sputtered yellow. The smell of onion and burger grease invaded my nose. She stood motionless. I studied her back. Her straight hair streamed down like blond corn silk around her purple paisley blouse, now shaking.
“Mom?”
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FROM KID IN THE CLOSET
Chapter 1
(Eli Cricket’s cousin, Meadow, has moved into the next bedroom after her parents drowned.)
Crunch, crunch, crunch!
I jerked my head toward the closet. Jabbar didn’t even turn an ear. Maybe she woke up. Maybe she’s eating something there in the next room, behind my closet.
Thunk!
What was that? That did not come from Meadow’s room. It came from my closet. I shoved Jabbar away and turned sideways on my bed so I could reach under it. I pulled out my baseball bat and rolled onto the floor. The half moon cast a dim, blue light on my closet door. A shiver ran down my spine.
On hands and knees, I crept to the sliding door of my closet. I stuck a couple of trembling fingers into the crack and slid the door open a few inches. Sitting up on my knees, I took a deep breath. I stuck the tip of my bat into the closet and shoved the door wide open.
A silver barrel poked out the door aimed right at my chest. I froze.
“Bam, bam, bam, bam, bam, BAM! You’re dead!”
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Chapter 1
(Gatsford, Texas, 2010)
JOURNAL FOR DAD
Dear Dad, (in case you’re alive)
Hi, Dad. You never made a will or anything so I thought I’d get mine in early. Especially with the way things are going these days. Here it is.
Last Will and Testament
I, Simon Gray, being of sound mind and semi-adequate body for a thirteen and a half year-old male, bequeath all my worldly possessions except this journal, to RUBEN HERNANDEZ, my best and only friend. No wait. Give my old bike to Sarah Crutchfield. It’s too small for Ruben.
Be it known that this is my LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT should I be found lying on a sidewalk between here and school beaten to a bloody pulp, or just missing from the face of this planet, like you, Dad.
Mom, I’m sorry for being such a pain in the you-know-what.
Dad, I miss you. If you’re alive, Dad, this is for you to keep. If you’re not, whoever finds this journal, please burn the entire thing. I don’t want it falling in the wrong hands. Oh, and my racecar Blood Monopoly piece, bury it with me if you can find my body. Otherwise give it to Gramps.
Simon Gray
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MAGIC PENCIL GIRL
Story 1
TRUE FRIENDS
I twirled my magic drawing pencil in the sunlight. Embedded in the dark, brown paint, the gold flecks sparkled. Unlike most drawing pencils, it had its own eraser, a purple one. I stuck it behind my ear, took a deep breath, and stepped onto the playground of Lincoln School, the only elementary school in Johnson Junction, California.
Sixth grade, at last, and armed with my “magic” pencil. I recently discovered it under a pile of dirty clothes heaped on the floor of my bedroom closet for over a year, ever since the day Daddy died. That was how fifth grade began and ended for me, a pile of dirty clothes and a dead dad. I spent the year looking down, ignoring friends, and speaking only when the teacher asked a question.
But today I looked up from my green canvas tennis shoes, which matched my green backpack, and into the dark, brown eyes of my former friend. I felt my knees wobbling.
“Hi, Monica.” Knowing full well I hadn’t really talked to her or any friends in a year, I ventured a wave.
Monica turned to Sarah as if she was saying Did you feel a breeze on your shoulder? and I was the breeze. Monica Solis used to be my best friend in the whole wide world. Her long, silky black hair hung to her waist and she was popular with everyone, even boys. I, on the other hand, had just-to-my-shoulders blondish hair, usually in a braid, and the only time boys noticed me was in class, raising my hand.
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(Winner of the 2003 Persie Award for Inspirational Story Writing)
A BLINK IN THE EYE OF THE GREAT BLUE HERON
At twelve years old, I decided that riding my bike to the church on Sunday to find God was just not for me.
One Sunday, I lashed on my fishing pole and headed for Duck Creek instead – in the rain.
I ploughed through thick brush to the large willow tree that guarded the best spot in the creek for both the swimming and fishing.
As I crept up to the creek, now swelled to five times its normal width, I felt his eyes. Just to the other side of the willow, still as a tree himself, the Great Blue Heron stared at me.
I stared back. He was huge, magnificent, noble. My heart pounded in his presence.
Five minutes or five hours or an eternity passed. And just once, he blinked and turned his head slightly.
At that moment I felt it. The bigness. The peace beyond words. All that stuff that poets strain to capture. I found what I had been looking for those other Sundays.
And with a slow, heavy beat, the Great Blue waved farewell with a six- foot wingspan and left me in tears of gratitude.
It was much later in life that I found the words that best described this experience. Ralph Waldo Emerson said:
God enters by a private door into every individual.
I would see the Great Blue Heron again and again in my life. It seemed that whenever I needed a reminder, he would fly across my horizon or post himself in a field that I was passing by.
Everything I write about comes to me in much the same way as that bird did; as a gift, a gift which it is my honor to share.
I look forward to sharing with you and hearing from you.
With deep regard,
PATRIC PEAKE
