Write...or Die Trying

I used to work in a factory. Now I work in an office. Either way, my writing was dying. So now I must: Write...or Die Trying.


Deleted Scene

Here's a deleted scene from one of my short stories:

That high-strung newsman didn't even spell my last name right. I told him twice how to spell it and he still got it wrong. It was nice to see my name in the paper, even if it was on page six. I never had that before. But if you're really interested in knowing what happened, then you're going to have to hear it from me. I'm the only one that knows how it all went.

I was only 12 then. That was two and a half years ago. Nineteen hundreed and twenty three. My mother died when I was two. I don't remember her. My father ran off after I was born. I don't remember him neither. I don't even know what his name was. My mother didn't keep pictures of him, so I can't tell you what he looked like. My foster parents gave me their last name of McCullen. I don't know what my real last name is, on account of they never would tell me.

Mr. and Mrs. McCullen were nice enough, I guess, just not my style. I decided to run away that summer, after I read a book by this fella Mark Twain. Huckleberry Finn it was called. I really liked that book. Mrs. McCullen thought I would, it bein about an orphan and all. I reckon 'ol Huck and I had loads in common. If he could manage it on his own, floatin down the Mighty Mississippi on a beat-up ol raft, then I could surely handle ridin the rails with the other hoboes. So that's what I did. I ran away.

I hear tell I dropped off the paperwork of the state social workers. They lost me. I was mighty glad of that. I was really free. I could go anywhere, do anything, or do nothing. I dodged the railroad dicks on the Santa Fe and Burlington Northern through Arkansas, Missouri, Kentucky, Alabama, Mississippi, Arizona, and Texas. It was a high time. Sure, I was hungry and cold and tired most of the time, same as the other folks. But I was free.

Some of the older fellas couldn't truck with all that being alone. I woke up one morning before anyone else, like always, and found ol Dick DuBois drowned in a pond of muck and puke that smelled powerful like whiskey. Drunk hisself to death instead of hanging hisself or throwin down in front of a train or something respectable like that. Old Dick was a nice fella, but too soft. He missed his family too much, I 'spect. I never did understand why he didn't just go back to them. He said he felt guilty or something. I tried to tell him his son probably would like it if'n he was just home, low-down kerr dog or no, but he just smiled at me and said he wished he could be. That was the day before he killed hisself and the day after I met Andy.


At 6/28/2004 07:00:00 PM, Blogger Michele said...

Hmmm, I wonder why you deleted this scene. I did notice that the first paragraph has a different character voice from the rest of the piece. I did like the southern drawl and boyishness of the character, it really brought him to life.


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