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The Forgotten Angels (standard:drama, 5602 words)
Author: HurricaneWarningAdded: Oct 03 2002Views/Reads: 2831/1727Story 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) 


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. 

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