Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Once Upon a Time in The Bronx by J.H. Long (best books to read for young adults txt) 📖
- Author: J.H. Long
Book online «Once Upon a Time in The Bronx by J.H. Long (best books to read for young adults txt) 📖». Author J.H. Long
“Come on, now. Go way outta that! You leaving?” I asked.
“Yes. I should be getting home,” the lass said. She walked with the stride of a giraffe. I jogged to keep up.
“Just like that?” I asked. “What about the bracelet? You just going to leave after I went through all the trouble?”
“Maybe I’ll hit you up, later. Go home, kid.”
“But.—Hey! What’s this ‘kid’ business! You just taking that? I don’t even know your name!”
Suddenly the lass stopped in her tracks and screamed right into my face, like I was chasing her with a machete. She sounded like a banshee. When I didn’t run, she did it again, and I backed away. People up and down the sidewalk paused to see what the commotion was. All eyes were on me and I felt like I was on trial—no, more like I had already been sentenced. What could I do? I ran. I turned into the alley and muddled my way home.
I grumbled and tightened my fists all the way home. I went to all the trouble, and she took it away, just like that. I felt… used.
When I got home, I found my granddad standing on a ladder in the yard, stretched out to scrape leaves out of the gutter on our little suburban home. He knew when I stepped on his lawn without having to look.
“Took you long enough, boyo. I told you to get my pills, not run around town, acting the maggot,” he said.
“Sorry, Granddad.”
“You run into trouble?” Granddad asked.
“Uh, a little.” I said.
“Well, you made it back in one piece; couldn’t have been too bad. Just leave my pills in the kitchen. I’ll tend to them later. It’s time for yardwork. Grab the rake and collect up all these leaves.”
“Yes, granddad.”
“Good boy.”
“Hey, granddad?”
“Yes, boy?”
“Can you tell me something about girls?” I asked.
My granddad actually stopped floundering at the leaves and turned to me. He smiled just a bit. “Oh, that kind of trouble was it? Just a tick. I’ll finish this up and come down to help you with the yard. We can have a chat.”
I nodded and stepped toward the house. The wind carried the sound of a distant siren, and I paused, gazing toward the horizon for a moment, but then went inside
Just another day in the Bronx.
ImprintPublication Date: 09-14-2020
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