My name doesn't matter. I have one, sure, but I don't really use it anymore. I think my mom gave it to me. Might have been my dad, actually. An aunt? Anyway, it doesn't matter because I go by Trips. I didn't always, but I do now.
When I was a kid (well, more of a kid), I used the name my mom/dad/obscure family member gave me, but a near fatal slip on the playground gave me my new name.
I had climbed to the top of the slide platform. The very top. The roof, actually. It wasn't one of those plastic ones that have the slanted sides and look like a church. It was the old, metal kind that looked like the entrance to the movie theater my parents took me and my sister to. The one that only shows old movies. Anyway, it was one of those.
I climbed it because Darren, who's stupid and smells like corn chips, called me a baby and said I couldn't. I proved him wrong. My only regret is forgetting that the sun could make metal hot. Hot enough to melt shoes. Shoes get slippery when they melt, and sometimes you can just slide right off a slide-platform-roof-thing that looks like a move theater entrance and fall all the way down to the wood chips.
They called me Trips ever since that day. But this story isn't really about that. This story is about more than just my name.
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My name doesn't matter
FantasyA story about the woods, names, teeth, and, most importantly, freshman year.
