My Collection of Birthday Not-So-Short Stories

When Midnight Strikes, Part 1

This is my own birthday story that I felt like starting. I haven't written a lot, but I wanted to post something, so enjoy what i have so far. I promise to update it soon!!

When Midnight Strikes

“I live in Boston, Massachusetts, 1943. A year of the never-ending nightmare, as Mom calls it. I prefer its official name: World War Two. The time when Hitler, the Fuher of Germany and quite possibly the biggest idiot on the Earth, rocked the world by sending out his idiotic Nazis to go and conquer Europe and slay every Jew in sight.  It’s my Daddy’s job to fly around in planes to help those poor Europeans.

The problem is, that’s left Mom and me to fend for ourselves. We’re really crunching for money nowadays.

We own a grocery store only a few blocks away from our apartment, which Mom, Aunt Judy and I gotta keep watch over. When I’m not working there, I write. I don’t have the persistence or inspiration to stay on one story for very long, but it keeps me going. Sure, I go to school and I have my best friends whose daddies have gone off to war too and we hang out whenever we can, but right now our first priority is helping out our families. Running a store isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

This is the story of how I found my inspiration…”

 I set my chin on my hand, while the other fiddled with the plastic pen. Maybe trying to write an autobiography was a bad idea. I mean, I wrote right there, “This is the story of how I found my inspiration” but I haven’t even found my “inspiration” yet.

I reread my opening twice more, till I decided that three paragraphs was a pretty good start.

“Connie! Can you come down here for a second?” called Mom’s honey-suckle voice from downstairs. I forgot to write down about how she sung at bars and on street corners in her free time. She was a great singer, but it isn’t the best way to make a living. Besides, we can’t just dump the store. Where else is Daddy gonna work when, and if, he comes back?

I bounced down the steps quickly, jumping from the third to last one and landing right in front of her. I gave a quick around her waist, and leaned over and kissed me on the forehead. She looked really pretty in her black dress, with her chocolaty hair curled and her lips as red as rubies. “I won’t be back till late. Make sure to get to bed by ten. You got that?”

I nodded, deciding that eleven was a fine time to go to bed, assuming that I could get to bed.

Ever since Daddy left for war, there are three things that have remained consistent with me: (1) I’m always wearing the aviator’s cap and goggles Daddy gave me before he left. (2) I always keep the beautiful golden pocket watch I got when my rich grandpa died with me. (3) I’ve rarely had a full night’s sleep.

I seemed to be plagued with insomnia. I haven’t told Mom about it, and maybe I won’t until it’s gone. I’d be lying to say it’s because of nightmares of Daddy dying or anything like that, but it’s something like that. Every time I try to go to sleep I end up tossing and turning because I keep imagining the most horrible things. Things like Daddy dying or Mommy leaving or me or one of my friends being sent off to war ‘cause they don’t have enough soldiers.

That’s when I write. I usually collapse into sleep after three hours of writing straight, although sometimes it takes me more, depending on how energetic I am. Sometimes I write down my dreams. Other times I think up random stories that keep my mind off the night-dreams.  It’s all the medication I need.

After Mom left, I checked my pocket watch. The faded and not-so-dazzling gold was cold in my warm, sweaty hand. 9:45. The old lady wanted me to be in bed in fifteen minutes?!