|
Post by orinocoflow on Nov 10, 2010 18:30:26 GMT -5
this is version two, the sadder one. as you can see, it is quite similar to the other one, but it is not at all connected, so please dont make that mistake or it will mess up the story. Roger eagerly ran down the steps into the living room on Christmas morning. He was seven, and there was nothing more that he wanted to find that morning than to see his father again. He had written a long note to Santa Claus, explaining with all his heart what he wanted. He had stayed up well into the night two days ago, sitting there with a small dictionary that he had dug up from an old box in the attic, making sure that he had not made any mistakes.
Dear Mr. Santa Claus,
There is only one thing that I want for Christmas this year. I have been good all year long, and have gotten good grades in school. All of my teachers say that I am very good at everything that we do except math, on which I can still work a bit. I help Ma out at home, keep my room clean, and play nicely with my friends.
Please, for this Christmas, bring home Daddy. We all miss him very, very much.
Love, Roger
He knew that Santa had always brought him everything he asked for, except when one time he had run out of tin soldiers and had left a note saying that he was sorry that there weren’t any left, but he had gotten him a little drum instead so that he could pretend to be the soldier. But as he ran into the living room, he saw that it was empty.
The stockings were empty, not even a note inside. Looking around everywhere, he could not find Daddy. Finally, biting back tears, he ran back up to his room and crawled back into bed, hiding under the covers.
Santa had forgotten about him.
* * *
|
|
|
Post by laurenne on Nov 10, 2010 19:29:33 GMT -5
Ok, that's even worse than the first one.
|
|
|
Post by celticbear on Nov 10, 2010 22:30:47 GMT -5
Ori! I agree with Laurenne this one is even sadder than the first one!
|
|
|
Post by orinocoflow on Nov 11, 2010 20:52:24 GMT -5
im pausing this one while i catch up on others, but who knows? might have time.
|
|
|
Post by orinocoflow on Nov 12, 2010 10:31:36 GMT -5
Roger watched the man make his way down the street, humming to himself. He was tall, and although it was crisp outside, he did not have a hat on, his thick brown hair shining gold in the winter sun. Out of all of the people in the street, he was the only one without children in tow; he didn’t even have anyone with him, unless you count the shorter man he had stopped to talk with for a while about an hour before. That one had had black hair that just peeked out from under a warm hat, but was the same, alone and without kids. What were they doing there?
This man had kinder eyes, a warm, joyful blue, unlike the icy, light blue eyes of his friend’s. They spoke of laughter and happiness, mischief and quick wit.
But most of all, they reminded him of his father’s eyes.
The man switched to whistling the tune as he turned a corner. Not wanting to let him just disappear like that, Roger grabbed his gloves and ran after him, making sure that the man did not see him.
* * *
Paul whistled one of the songs that was on the radio all of the time, and was now conveniently stuck in his head. Fortunately, it was a Christmas song, so he had an excuse to whistle it.
He had bumped into Ryan when he had least been expecting it, since the man lived so far away from Dublin, and the first thing his friend had commented was that he was going to get cold ears if he did not put on a hat. Laughing, Paul had shook his head, saying that he had never worn a hat in weather as fresh as this. Hoisting the bag of presents for New Years’ Eve over his shoulder, he glanced back at the street to make sure no cars were there before crossing to the other side. He saw a boy standing a few yards behind him, he smiled and crossed quickly before the car that was just down the block from him had time to get too close.
Just as he was about to walk on, however, he saw out of the corner of his eye the boy start into the street after him without looking to spot cars first. But Paul knew that by that time, the car would be there—and it had no way of seeing the little boy coming out from behind the cars parked on the curb.
Giving a shout to the driver to stop, more out of habit than of hope that he would hear him, he dropped the bag over his shoulder and sprinted back into the street, grabbing the kid just in time and slipping on the slick road, sliding into the snow bank by the road. The driver skid to a stop, a horrified expression on his face.
Paul sighed, releasing the death grip he had had on the little boy. Looking down, he was surprised to find himself staring into a par of eyes as blue as his own. Blinking, he cleared his throat, shaking the snow out of his hair.
“You all right?” he asked the boy just as the driver came over to the two of them.
“I am so sorry; I had absolutely no idea he was there,” rushed the driver breathlessly, his eyes wide.
“It’s all right, he’s fine. Don’t dare go out into the street again without checking it first, you got that?” he said sternly, focusing on the boy again. The boy nodded, getting some color back into his cheeks. Looking back up at the driver, Paul forced a smile. “Sorry about that. Be careful, and hope the rest of the holidays are better,” he said.
“Yeah,” replied the driver, still a bit panicked. With a last glance at the boy, he stumbled back to the car and crept on down the road, checking repeatedly to make sure that no more boys ran out into the street.
Paul turned back to the boy. Sighing, he got to his feet, but when he took a step onto his right ankle, he winced and grasped the nearby lamppost to keep from falling. He took another step, sucking in breath through his teeth, and managed to limp over to a bench. Once there, he looked up to see the boy standing right beside him, an apologetic expression on his face.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he whispered, his head down. Sighing again, Paul reached out and cuffed his ear lightly, smiling when the boy looked up at him in surprise.
“Do you want me to walk you home? It might be safer—it’s getting rather dark out.” The boy hesitated, and then nodded. “All right; let me just get my bags.”
Groaning softly as he got to his feet, he crossed the street again to get his bags, and when he returned, he put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and walked him back the way he had just come.
* * *
|
|
|
Post by orinocoflow on Nov 12, 2010 21:50:21 GMT -5
what, no one read this?
|
|
|
Post by laurenne on Nov 12, 2010 22:57:33 GMT -5
Sorry, my computer was getting fixed. I liked it, though.
|
|
|
Post by celticbear on Nov 12, 2010 23:01:50 GMT -5
Ori! I love it! Don't Stop Now! Keep going! Version 2 is turning out much better than the first one! PLEASE UPDATE SOON!
|
|
|
Post by orinocoflow on Nov 12, 2010 23:26:46 GMT -5
i have an update, but ill post it tmrw morning
guys, and can i get honest reviews? if you think this is horrible, just say so, and if you have any criticism, i would love to hear it.
and this goes for all of my stories. its just that i keep on getting thumbs up when i would like to get some criticism. call me weird, but i would.
thanks!
|
|
|
Post by celticbear on Nov 12, 2010 23:39:34 GMT -5
Ori! I am being Honest with you! If I did not like something I would tell you!
|
|
|
Post by orinocoflow on Nov 13, 2010 19:07:33 GMT -5
“Roger? Where have you b—oh,” said his mother, opening the door. “Who is this?” she asked as soon as she recovered from seeing bright blue eyes.
“He saved me,” said Roger, beaming up at her. “He just walked me home because it’s dark and he was worried I might get hurt.” Paul opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out as the woman turned a scrutinizing glare on him.
She looked like an exact copy of the little boy, except her hair was a shade darker than his medium brown and her eyes were a vivid green, not blue. She gave him a look that clearly said, “What do you think you’re doing, coming here?” but then she turned back to her son.
“Roger, what have you done now that you needed to be saved from?” she asked sternly, pulling him into the house and speaking in a tone similarly stern to Paul’s own.
Roger looked away, and then mumbled, “I ran into the street without looking again.”
With an exasperated sigh, she sent him to go change. As soon as he disappeared around the corner, she turned to face Paul.
“Well, I guess I owe you a thank-you. He means the world to me,” she said, smiling slightly.
“No problem at all,” replied Paul, managing a smile in return. Even though it was forced, it lit up his face, making his blues shine even more in the soft glow of the dim light in the living room. She nodded, and then noticed that he was keeping all of his weight off of his right foot.
“Are you hurt?” she asked, concerned. Paul glanced down and shrugged.
“No, I’m fine,” he said easily, trying to dismiss the attention. But when that earned another look from her, he grinned sheepishly. “It just hurts a bit; nothing much.”
“And that is why you don’t have any weight on it and it is already swollen. Come in; I’d put some ice on that soon if I were you.” She looked back into his eyes. “Or do you need to be somewhere soon?”
Paul stood there for a moment, and then shook his head. “No, nowhere in particular.”
“Then come on in,” she said, opening the door wider so that he could come in from the chilly air.
“Thank you, Mrs.…” he let the question hang.
“Ms. Connolly, but you can call me Kathryn.”
“Kathryn. Thank you,” he said, smiling naturally now as he limped in, his ankle hurting more now that the cold was not numbing it.
* * *
|
|
|
Post by celticbear on Nov 13, 2010 22:09:12 GMT -5
Ori! I love this update! Me smell a new Romance brewing! PLEASE UPDATE SOON!
|
|
|
Post by orinocoflow on Nov 14, 2010 12:33:49 GMT -5
really, do you now? i wouldn't get my hopes up if i were you who knows, right?
|
|
|
Post by laurenne on Nov 14, 2010 17:18:48 GMT -5
I agree with cb, I smell a romance brewing. But, then again, where is Roger's dad, is he dead or at war? Knowing that will answer the romance question.
|
|
|
Post by orinocoflow on Nov 14, 2010 18:15:24 GMT -5
thank you!!! you just gave me an idea to get out of my writer's block!
|
|