|The Forgotten Angels (standard:drama, 5602 words)|
|Author: HurricaneWarning||Added: Oct 03 2002||Views/Reads: 2788/1698||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|A rough and tough homeless boy meets a small eight-year old who eventually becomes a treasured friend. The main stories occurs in the early 60‘s and quickly concludes in 2002 with a shocking ending.|
“The Forgotten Angels” By Stephen Bryan (Hurricane Warning) *****Prologue***** November 22, 1962 My mother once told me to just run like a “dog on fire” if I ever found myself anywhere near the large boy. But now that he and I were interviewing face to face, his strong hand swathed strappingly around my skinny eight year-old neck, that option no longer served valid. Don Shiner was his name, a tall, plumpish assembled boy of only fourteen years, yet a boy who owned the city of Northside's most notorious reputation. In a large wooded area of town, my search for bottles - each holding a two-cent bounty - had accidentally brought me upon the hovel habitat of the boy. His abrupt arrival was of such promptness that I never had the opportunity to follow my mother‘s simple but wise counsel. Just a crack of a twig then a hand with cobra speed encompassing my neck. “What are you doing hanging round my property?” demanded the large boy. “I'm sorry sir, I promise, I didn't know anyone lived around here. I was just looking for bottles, I sell ‘them down at the pharmacy,” I cried out, holding up two empty soda bottles as quick evidence. “Well someone does live round here, look right over there,” he yelled, squeezing my neck harder and pointing my head in the direction of his shabbily built hut. “Please sir, just turn me lose and I promise with my life that I'll never come anywhere near here again,” I pledged. “Are you a part of them punk-creep kids who's been sneaking round and pegging my hideout with rocks?” he growled, scarlet blood mounting to his face. “No sir, not me, sir, I'm not even allowed to throw rocks,” I vowed. “Alright,” he finally said, at last releasing my neck but pulling a large six-inch knife from his belt. “But if I ever catch you round my camp again it's gonna be...Swish!” I felt the large blade rush just inches from my tear-spilled face. I turned and ran like the wind, thankful that I had miraculously escaped the black fury of Don Shiner with my life intact. To my backside I could hear the fading voice of the large boy roaring in laughter. *****Part 1***** Attached to my aged but faithful Schwinn Flyer where three large baskets which I used to carry the overwhelming load of my daily soda bottle roundup. One basket had been placed in front of the handlebars while the other two sat astride the rear fender. Oftentimes, the bike would be so overloaded that it wobbled dangerously to and fro making it near impossible to steer. I pulled behind Mr. Smith's pharmacy and carefully began unloading my entire afternoon collection into large wooden creates. Mr. Smith, stood over me, methodically counting each bottle then noting the amount into his ledger book. Once finished, I followed him inside where he generously forked over the bounty. Today was a good day; fifty bottles at two cent each brought an entire dollar. The new bike that I had my eye on was $62.00 and I'd already stashed away nearly $37.00. What started out as just a dream was now becoming an unbelievable reality. At this rate, just twenty-five more days of collecting and I'd be on my new bike by Christmas! Under my spinning, worn-out tires, the crimson leaves swirled and spun in a dance. The cold autumn wind burned lightly yet refreshing across my face. Meandering from nearby chimneys was the rustic sweet smell of wood smoke blending with the appetizing aroma of evening meals being prepared. I hastened my speed, and lost myself in a dream of riding soon upon my new bicycle. Suddenly as I rounded a corner, I hit my brakes, sending me to a fast and grinding halt. My heart dug in deep. Click here to read the rest of this story (568 more lines)
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