NaNo Day #2; [Medea Six]
Title: Medea Six
Word Count of Selection: 582
Current Total Word Count: # 955 / 50,000
Why are you posting this for us? Out of surprise I actually got this far? Very slow and steady, but progress nonetheless!
Notes: This is the (way too dry and boring and in need of severe rework) beginning of the story. Amazingly enough. And, uh, as you'll see later, the narrator has a name.
I read excerpts from this book once; it was in our textbooks in junior high, I think. But all I remember was that there was a king in there that said something like “begin at the beginning, and go on ‘till you come to the end: then stop.” I’m going to try to stick to that the best I can, even though I’ve got to admit Souris was a lot better at that sort of thing.
Souris really is the beginning of it. Souris was my best friend.
We ended up introduced when I was five and a half and she was six. It wasn’t much. Mom was holding some society thing, and me and Souris were just the only kids there. We played in my room while Mom made small talk with some of her old friends and Dad watched soccer with some of his old friends, and their dollies ran around the house trying to make sure everyone had plenty of food.
Past that, I don’t remember much about that day, and I guess to be honest, I may not remember it at all. Mom held a lot of parties. There’s no telling, maybe I just mashed all the ones I do remember from when I was a little kid and then decided that one was the one where I met Souris.
But Mom remembers that I told her afterwards, mouth full of cake, pout already on my lips, that Souris had to come back soon.
And in a sense she never stopped coming back after that.
We played at my house, mostly since it was bigger, but partially because Souris was really into reading. I let her go through my basically untouched bookshelf that had been picked out by my aunt, who I hated, and she’d read out loud when we were both tired of playing pretend, or watching DVDs.
It annoyed me in a vague way, but I always listened to her. Souris didn’t know how to make a story good, how to put enough emotion into her voice that I could sort of see what was happening in my head. Later I found out that was because her dolly had been the one that taught her how to read, but when I was five, that didn’t matter. She was just a boring reader.
“Let me read,” I said one afternoon, trying to pull the book out of her hands. She glared but let go of it, folding her pudgy arms across her chest.
“Bet you can’t read like I can,” she said.
“Can so.” Confident, I plopped down on my beanbag chair and opened the book up to the title page. “Tommy and the S-p—s—puh—”
“I was going to say that! You didn’t give me time!”
“Told you you couldn’t read like me,” Souris said, triumphant. “It’ll take forever and ever if you keep reading. Give it back.”
“It’s my book!” I raged. Even though she hadn’t even gotten up from off the floor I clutched the book in my hands like she was going to steal it back at any moment. “I can read just as good as you can! I’m just—you can’t have it!”
Souris glared again in response.
“Fine. Have your stupid book. I’ll just read another one.” She made a move towards the bookshelf. I yelped in protest.
“Uh-uh! All those are my books! Who said you could read them?”
“You can’t stop me from reading!”