Beginning of my story

This is just the first draft and just a small part. The story is going to change, I've decided on a new approach, but here is this part anyway :]


I run five miles every morning.
For years I had run across the blistering sand at the edge of a vast desert somewhere in the Middle East; the place had a name, but names are trivial, and I was running out of time. My breathing now was as heavy as it was when I completed my daily runs. I was panting, and struggling for each breath, but on those hot days it felt good. After I had completed my run I would dab myself off with a wet rag; it felt like a small piece of heaven, my own little oasis.

I had always liked to run even when I was back at home in my little one story house in the good ole’ South in the US. That felt like a lifetime ago, but I could still remember the smell of the peaches that fell from our tree in the backyard. I can still recall the gentle breezes that tickled the emerald stalks of grass; the soft creaking of the rocking chair where mother sat in the afternoons, rocking and reading her romance novels; the way the tire swing hung grimly from the thick tree in our front yard like a hangman‘s noose. I had thought of that swing as a place of death ever since that hot summer day when I was told, while I was sitting upon that very swing, that my father was dead.

My mother had not even graduated high school when she had me, and my father was merely a freshman in college. Mom had been scared, but Dad had come to her rescue. They were married on Easter, the day of new life, and together they began the long, hard journey that is parenthood. Dad continued through college and held a steady job; mom stayed at home with me. After Dad got out of school, he became a successful lawyer, and once I started school, Mom got herself a job as a secretary at Dad’s firm. Things were wonderful; I had a great life. I loved my parents, and they loved me.


As I recall these things, I lay on the sand which I ran across everyday; I feel like I am burning beneath the sun, and I can see the smoke issuing from my wearied body. I breathe in and out, panting, and beside of me I see blood.


I did not cry at my Dad’s funeral. I stood outside beneath the clearest, bluest sky I had ever seen, and I clutched a stuffed tiger to my chest. The tiger’s name was Stripes, and it was the last thing my father had gotten me. I could vividly remember the day I had gotten Stripes. Mom, Dad, and I had all gone to see the circus, and after it was over, I had seen Stripes nestled between other souvenirs from the shows. Mom and Dad had followed me over to the table where the tiger sat, and watched with wearied smiles as I picked it up and cuddled it closely. Mom had looked at the price tag, and her eyes had gotten wide. She had started to protest then, but when I flashed my trademark pleading look toward my father, he had passed the bills over the table without batting an eye. Mom had rolled her eyes and flashed a loving smile toward the both of us. “You spoil the boy,” She had whispered as Dad kissed my hair.

I kept that tiger with me at all times, and we were never apart. This lasted for three days. After that, I just pushed Stripes to the side and did not think about him anymore. Instead, I thought about the newest comic or television show; I thought about third grade tests and fickle friendships based upon things like snacks and games.