MISSING THE BUS
BY LANCE TURNER
Billy was a normal 10-year-old boy, well as normal as any 10-year-old boy could be. It was towards the end of winter, and he was excited that spring will be coming soon. This past winter he has felt colder, more than usual. He never did like the winter, constantly so cold. However, spring will be here in a few months, and then he could shed the cold and the heavy coat that he always wore. He was in bed. He loved his bed it was constantly so warm with thick blankets and electric blanket that he always turned on about 20 minutes before going to bed. This last part of winter seemed to be even colder than usual, and the coldness seeped into his bones.
He was suddenly awake; he had a really odd dream. However, he could not for the life of him; remember what the dream was about. He just shrugged it off as something you are not meant to remember. He looked at the alarm clock, and it was flashing 9 pm indicating that the power must have gone out about that time. He looked over to the watch that his dad gave to him the year before he died of cancer. He really loved his dad; he misses him so much. That when the cancer finally took him that a part of Billy had died along with his dad. It took him a long time before he felt like he wanted live again. It was big, and Billy could not wear it right away, but he yearned to. It had those really cool glows in the dark hands and numbers. His dad said that he would grow into it. The time read 6:30 am.
Oh, crap he thought. He is going to be late for the bus. He got out of bed and was dressed in no time. He ran down the stairs almost flying down them; he thought. There in the kitchen was his mother preparing breakfast. His mom was wonderful; she made the best chocolate-chip cookies. When the cookies came out of the oven, she had to fight off dad and myself from stealing them before they cooled off. The chocolate chips would be all melting, and the warmth from them would have made us feel good inside. I think she liked to pretend to fight us off, there were always a couple of glasses of milk on the table waiting for us before our raid. She doesn’t make them anymore; I wish she would. He thought.
There in the high chair was his kid sister. Her name is Sammy, well that’s what he called her among other names like: butthead, the slobber monster, and stinky britches. He didn’t hate his younger sister. He loved her. However, at times she did try his patients. He was in usual
