Lost Children
A week of first drafts.....
The pieces I’m posting this week aren’t polished. They aren’t revised. Some of them wander, some of them end abruptly, and some of them discover halfway through that they’re actually about something else entirely.
For years I treated first drafts like evidence of incompetence when they’re really evidence of process. The first draft’s job isn’t to be good. Its job is to find the story. The second draft can be judgmental. The second draft can be ruthless. My first draft doesn’t have to be.
So this week I’m sharing a few pieces exactly as they arrived: messy, unfinished, and alive.
“I’m hungry,” Dahlia said quietly as she pulled on Becka’s sleeves.
“I know baby, but I can’t get food until after dark, you know what,” Becka said, peering out the window for patrols.
“Benny’s hungry too.” Dahlia got up in her older sister’s face, causing Becka to take notice and look around the room. Benny was curled up in the corner.
“Benny’s sleeping. You should sleep too.”
“I can’t sleep, I’m hungry.”
“Just try, for me.”
Acknowledging defeat, Dahlia went to the corner to sit by her brother Benny. On the way she grabbed an old children’s book that had been left behind. “Mr. Whiskers Goes To The Fair”- she’d read it at least twice a day since they found this place. It was dirty, but there was enough roof to keep them warm and out of any rain.
It was nearly nine by the time Becka decided it was dark enough for her to go out and try to make it to the store. She’d drop down to the spot in the alley where the lights didn’t reach and hopefully there’d be someone to go on a run with her.
Safety in numbers.
“Stay hidden, I won’t be gone long.”
“Are you getting something to eat?”
“Yes Dahlia. Now watch your brother and stay quiet.”
Becka peaked out the backdoor and, once she was satisfied it was clear, she quietly stepped out and made her way through the back yard to the alley. Luckily Michelle was waiting there for her.
Both of Michelle’s parents had died shortly after the new regime took over and with no known family she was on her own at fifteen. Michelle preferred to be on her own, turning down several offers to live with Becka.
“I was worried I was going to have to go alone,” Michelle smiled as she saw Becka.
“I was worried about it too, glad you’re here.”
“What are you thinking tonight?”
“I think we should hit the corner market on 38th, we’ll be there and back in no time.”
“They don’t have real food.”
“Real food has real security. Plus, Dahlia’s been down lately, they have the best snacks there. I promise you, we get a group of us together and make a plan we’ll go on a real food run.”
“Fine, but we need to make that happen soon,” Michelle said as she creeped down the alley, making her way over to the corner market.
Their movement had a rehearsed, almost military flow to it. Slinking in the shadows, pausing at the street crossings, dashing to the shadow across the street and then up the next alley. Every kid that the state had deemed homeless knew the drill.
Maybe that’s survivorship bias. Every homeless kid Becka met knew the drill because the ones that didn’t were around long.
“So how do you want to do this?” Michelle asked as the two peeked out from the windows of an abandoned house across the street from the market.
“Let’s just give the backdoor a try. If we’re lucky it opens up and we can snatch some stuff from the backroom without anybody noticing.”
“If we’re lucky?”
“We’ve been lucky, you know, so far,” Becka paused to look around the dilapidated house around them. “For the most part.”
“And if we’re not lucky?”
“We run straight in the front door, grab anything we can as we go through the store and then go the storeroom door and barrel through the locked door that started it all.”
“Poetic.”
“And we don’t stop running until we’re clear.”
“So…don’t stop and get caught?”
“Shut up. You ready to do this, or what?”
Becka bolted across the street, leaving Michelle behind. She reached the door and stopped, leaned against and smiled as Michelle arrived.
“You know, you’re the one always telling people not to do things like that,” Michelle said.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got a good feeling about this. I’ll just pop open this door and we’ll be gone before we’re noticed,” Becka said as she turned the knob on the door. “Dammit.”
“Locked, huh?” Michelle laughed.
“Sure, but we have a killer plan B.”
“Charging through a store, grabbing whatever you can and hoping to make it out the back before you get tackled or shot doesn’t seem like much of a plan, kid.”
“Just try to keep up.”
The pieces I’m posting this week aren’t polished. They aren’t revised. Some of them wander, some of them end abruptly, and some of them discover halfway through that they’re actually about something else entirely.
For years I treated first drafts like evidence of incompetence when they’re really evidence of process. The first draft’s job isn’t to be good. Its job is to find the story. The second draft can be judgmental. The second draft can be ruthless. My first draft doesn’t have to be.
So this week I’m sharing a few pieces exactly as they arrived: messy, unfinished, and alive.
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