Join Date: Aug 2009
Constructive criticism on my story?
So far, anyway.
“Amy? Dear, where are you?” Aunt Macy called out for me.
“Here, Auntie,” I replied back. I hadn’t realized I was simply sitting in Aunt Macy’s cellar room, reading stacks and stacks of old newspapers over fifty years old.
Aunt Macy walked in, and for the first time I noticed how silly she looked. Her hair was a messy bun, with strands of hair here and there loose; her long skirt with ruffles at the end stained; her apron tied on too tight.
“Aunt Macy, you’re a mess!” I exclaimed at her sight. She merely frowned.
“And you’re reading,” she emphasized. “How many times have I told you not to get carried away with those old ratty papers?”
“They’re not ratty old papers,” I contradicted. “And I’m sorry.” I usually didn’t get carried away reading the old papers, but when I did, I just sat there, unaware of the world, reading past events and looking through pictures. Most kids would find this weird, but I just got lost in the past of other people, completely forgetting the present.
I moved a strand of dirty-blonde hair away from my face and behind my ear. My hair gets really messy, so I usually have it up in a ponytail and I usually wear soft pants with some cheap shirt that usually said“KANSAS RULES” or some other slogan about Kansas that I found hidden in the racks of some store. Aunt Macy would kill for me to show some feminism, like wearing make up or skirts or a tank top or something. I would never, though. What’s the point? Make up will just smudge all over your face. Skirts and tank tops are definitely revealing. And plus, I never did try to impress anyone.
“Hon, Mrs. Maples is here. She wants to talk to you,” Aunt Macy said.
Mrs. Maples owns the Maples and Maples Grocery Store, the biggest in our small town of Winchester, Kansas, where nothing happens. It’s a real good thing I’m a quiet type of girl, otherwise life here would really be a challenge for me.
“Is she firing me?” I asked, knowing the answer. Mrs. Maples didn’t really have a whole long line of teenagers waiting to work for Maples and Maples Grocery Store, and my pay was about ten dollars an hour, so it wasn’t too bad. Or too good.
“Find out yourself,” she said, going back to her small bakery. My aunt runs a bakery shop, which does pretty good for a town with less than eight hundred people in it.
I walked upstairs and saw Mrs. Maples sitting on my aunt’s couch, looking frightened.
“Is something wrong, Mrs. Maples?” I asked. “You seem. . .afraid?”
“Oh, it’s just that,” she said. “It’s just, well, there seems to be a car outside Mr. DaCorty’s house, and Mr. DaCorty isn’t home and all—and I’m getting worried.”
I peeked out the window, and just as Mrs. Maples said, there was a car outside Mr. DaCorty’s house—and not just any car, no—a brand new, shiny red convertible Mustang car outside. My eyes grew huge as I saw the car. It’s license plate read “New York” in clear letters that even I could see from about a hundred feet away. That’s how close each house is to another.
I turned back to Mrs. Maples. “Maybe someone is over his house,” I suggested.
“But dear,” she said, “Mr. DaCorty isn’t home.”
“Where is he, then?” I asked. Mr. DaCorty usually never left the town.
“His daughter, Marcia, wanted him to spend the weekend at her new home. It’s only a mile away, so she came this morning.” Mrs. Maple answered.
“Oh,” I said. “I’ll go check it out, then.”
“Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Maple. She was really nervous and a shaken woman, but she was really nice. “I don’t think you—”
“I can ask Jackson to come with me,” I said. Jackson Parker was one of my friends, who lived just nearby.