[two hundred, fifty-seven!]
In a softly lit room, on a cold windy evening in the fall time, a small boy sat biting his lips on the floor. The rug under him was blue and torn in areas where he had clearly sat before, it was not rotting, it had a used look about it. He sat, nonetheless, thinking about the second half of recess today, the five minutes that Derrick had stolen his favourite baseball hat and he had to chase him all over the grass to get it back. It wasn't a big event, it wasn't even something that was worth getting upset over, the Miss Teacher told him it wasn't worth even crying over, Derrick had given it back eventually, after laughing at him. Derrick had told everyone that the boy's jeans were not blue but were the colour of the clear blue sea, and then convinced them that he wore no underpants.
This was absurd, this happened everyday, and as the boy sat in his room, biting his lips and leaning miserably against his mattress beside him, he wondered why his jeans would be clear blue like the sea. That wasn't even a little bit possible, how cold he would get if they were. He did not cry, this time, because thinking was only thinking, it only happened in his head, and there was no Derrick sitting across from him on this carpet, stealing his hat and his happy after all.
The wind outside was shaking the glass in the windows, and the boy could hear the cracks and the ground up dirt in the ridges between the glass and the window frame rustling along with the pounds of wind. It wasn't a storm, but windy and cold and it took a lot not to run away right now. He'd have to wait until he was at school.
Derrick wouldn't steal his hat, Miss Teacher wouldn't brush him off again, the girls wouldn't laugh at his clear blue sea jeans, he liked his jeans. He'd pack his bag tonight, he'd put his toothbrush and his book and his bear, and some extra socks just incase it rained, and he would leave that very next day at recess. The boy continued to sit, unmoving, other than his tiny white-ish teeth coming down softly first and then hard on his bottom lip. He was going to go.
And be swept away with the wind, up with the leaves that were to fall from their trees soon, up with the birds and the bugs and the airplanes. He'd be off free to run and read at his own leisure, no more worrying about school or Derrick, or anything other than being. Just to be, maybe, far off in the woods, maybe. Far off in a small cabin fit for a small boy, a small boy in blue clear sea jeans, and a lucky baseball cap. A small boy who reads books and bites his lips, and believes in beasts.
He knew many.
focus: integration between characterisation and detail, with narrative, sort of unfinished for obvious descriptive reasons (probably only obvious to me) but I sort of liked the boy, he seems like a neat venture, maybe his mom could be the woman who can't recognise, and that's another reason why he runs away. I focused on bullying because I feel like yeah there's tons of books about it, but why aren't they written first hand? And why does the protagonist continuously overcome? I'm foreseeing the boy not overcoming for about five or six years to come. He's intended to be in about second grade.
Jess :]
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