The Eyes of Claire Barker
The theme of this story is the supernatural and is supposed to be about "the house at the end of the road." It is based on a short story contest. The story cannot be more than 3,500 words in length (Mine is about 2,800 words). What do you think? If you want to comment, click on the comments link and comment away.
THE EYES OF CLAIRE BARKER
The summer of Jack’s twelfth year, his family moved. Jack wasn’t thrilled to be leaving. He had friends and he was about to go into the seventh grade. It’s hard enough to start seventh grade with kids you know, but to move during that summer between sixth and seventh grade and start seventh grade in a new town with unknown kids made it all the more rougher.
The saving grace of the move was that Jack’s family was moving from congested, smog-infested city to a small town in the rural Midwest. The name of the town isn’t important. The house, though, the Barker House was, and still is, important. As Jack would learn over the years, that house, although it was just down the road from Jack’s new home, wasn’t really at the end of the road. It was at the center of all things.
But this story isn’t about what Jack would learn later on. This story is about that first summer, when Jack lived on the other side of a small hill from the Barker House, and learned firsthand the real power that resided at the Barker House.
The move took place the week after sixth grade was over. Jack and his parents drove cross country with a moving van following as they went. When they pulled up in front of their new house, Jack jumped out of the car and ran up the front steps, yelling to his mom, “Where’s my room?”
“It’s on the second floor, honey. You’ll be all by yourself.”
Jack pushed open the front door, found the stairs, and raced up, taking the stairs three or four at time. The house was a small two-story, with a loft upstairs. Downstairs was a large family room, a kitchen, and a master bedroom. The house had a porch that wrapped around it on three sides. In the back, there was a door, and another set of steps that led to a backyard that gradually sloped down to a small creek that represented the property line. The yard wasn’t fenced in.
The loft was Jack’s room. The best part of it was that it had a door to the outside and there was a small balcony there. When Jack discovered it, he immediately opened the door and went out to stand on the balcony. Jack looked out over the surrounding area. From the balcony he could see180 degrees from east to north to west. On the east side of the house, the road led over a little rise in the land. Jack could see the top of a house just poking over the rise. His eyes were drawn to it.
All Jack could see was the peak of the house and a battered weather vane perched on that peak, spinning wildly. Jack thought it was odd since there was no wind. As Jack looked at the weather vane, it slowly came to a stop. When it stopped, it was pointing directly at Jack. The hairs on the back of Jack’s neck stood on end and a slight tingle shimmied down Jack’s spine.
The next morning, when Jack woke up, he went out to the balcony to survey his new kingdom. His eyes were drawn once again to the house on the other side of the rise and the weather vane. It was still pointing straight at him.
“Can I go for a ride on my bike?” Jack asked his mom, after breakfast was finished.
“Sure. Just don’t go too far. You don’t know your way around here, yet,” replied his mom.
Jack got his mountain bike out of the garage, which was full of boxes waiting to be unpacked, strapped on his helmet and rode down the drive to the street, Barker Lane. He turned left and pedaled up the rise. As Barker Lane crested the rise and began its descent down the other side it went from asphalt to gravel. A short ways off, at the end of the gravel road, stood the house with the weather vane. It was still pointing at Jack.
The house was a ramshackle three story Victorian. One of the windows on the first floor had broken and been boarded up. The outside hadn’t seen a new coat of paint in decades and the yard wasn’t really a yard anymore, it was just a large patch of weeds.
Jack rode towards the house and pulled up in front of it, stopping his bike next to the mailbox, which was perched at an angle and looked as though one touch would send it toppling to the ground. Jack looked down at the mailbox and barely made out the word “Barker” on it. The letters had once been black, but now they had faded so much that it was just the slightest of outline that formed the word.
When Jack looked up again, he realized he wasn’t alone. Sitting in a rocking chair on the porch by the front door was an old woman. She wasn’t moving, but she was looking right at Jack. Jack glanced up at the weather vane and saw that it was still pointing at him, too. He wondered if there was some mystical connection between the woman and the weather vane.
“Whatcha doing, lil chil’?” the woman suddenly yelled to him.
“No-no-nothing,” stuttered Jack in reply.
“Whatcher name?”
“Jack.”
“Well, come on up here, boy. I won’t bite.”
Jack hesitated for a moment. Years of being told not to talk to strangers had had their effect and he was reluctant to just do as this woman said. But, he did so anyway. She was an old woman. What could she do to him?
Jack walked up to the front porch, making his way through the weeds that had overgrown the path, and sat down in a chair next to the old woman. She was wearing an old calico print dress. She had thinning white hair--it sure wasn’t gray anymore--it was pure white. But, it was thin enough that her scalp showed through in places. The wrinkles on her face had wrinkles of their own.
“I’m Claire Barker,” the woman said, hacking after introducing herself, as though she was going to cough up a lung. Once the fit was past, she asked, “What’s your name?”
“Jack.”
“How old are you?”
“Twelve.”
“Ya new around here?”
“Yes. We just moved in yesterday.”
“Thirsty?”
“A little.”
“Why don’t you go on inside. I made some lemonade first thing this morning. I had a feeling I was going to have a young visitor today.”
“That’s OK, Ms. Barker. I don’t need anything.”
“What do you mean, you don’t need anything? You just said you were thirsty. Get on in there and get yourself a glass of lemonade and bring me out a glass, too. It’s going to be hot one today.”
Jack mumbled “OK” and got up from his chair. He crossed to the screen door and opened it, entering the house. The old screen door slammed shut--"whack”-- behind him, causing him to jump and look back behind him. The interior of the house looked a lot better than the outside. It was well-kept. Most of the furnishings looked like prized antiques. Everything was in its place.
Jack made his way through the front room to the kitchen. In the refrigerator was a freshly made pitcher of lemonade, just as the woman had said. And on the counter were two glasses.
Jack got some ice out of the freezer, filled the two glasses, and walked out to the porch. He handed a glass to the woman.
The woman took a sip of her lemonade, smacked her lips and said, “Aaah. Nothing better than an ice cold lemonade. Is there boy?”
“It’s very good. Thank you, Ms. Barker,”
“My, you’re a polite one. Your parents would be proud. No need to thank me. And you call me Claire. Nobody’s ever called me Ms. Barker. There’s no need to start that now.”
Jack and Claire sat there silently, drinking their lemonade. When Jack was finished he got up and said, “It’s time for me to go. Thanks again for the lemonade.”
“No problem, boy. Just remember. Anytime you want some more, there will always be a pitcher of fresh lemonade in the refrigerator,” said Claire. “Before you go, come on over here.”
Jack got up and walked over to Claire’s chair.
“Lean down, chil’, and look at me.”
Jack leaned down and looked at Claire’s face. He was drawn to her eyes. Claire’s eyes were brown and seemed bottomless. There was a depth to them that seemed unreal. As Jack leaned over and looked into Claire’s eyes, he felt like he had been swallowed up by them.
“Listen to me, lil chil’. If you ever need anything, you come see me. Claire Barker will take care of you. You hear me?”
Without really realizing it, Jack mumbled “uh-huh” in reply.
“You go on home now. I’m an old lady and I’m getting tired,” said Claire.
Jack stood back up and walked down the steps, listening to the boards creak as he did so. When he got to his bike, he turned and waved to Claire Barker. She waved back. As Jack got on his bike, Claire got up slowly from her rocking chair and made her way towards the screen door. Jack was startled once again by the sound of the screen door slamming shut as she went inside.
Jack rode towards home. Instead of turning in at the drive, he rode on for awhile, turning on
different roads, exploring the area. After about forty-five minutes of riding, he made his way back home. When he walked in, he was hot and sweaty.
“Mom, is there anything to drink?”
“Of course, Jack. While you were out, I made a fresh pitcher of lemonade,” replied his mom.
A few days later, in an effort to make Jack’s transition easier, Jack’s dad brought home a puppy. It was an eight-week-old golden retriever.
“Wow! Thanks, Dad,” said Jack, as the puppy bounded around him and over him, licking his face and nibbling at him with his sharp, little puppy teeth.
“What are you going to name him?” asked Jack’s mom.
“I think I’ll name him Sparky.”
The next few weeks Jack and Sparky were inseparable. They spent every waking moment with each other, and Sparky slept alongside Jack in Jack’s bed. So, they really spent every moment of every day together. Sparky became the friend Jack so desperately needed in his new home.
A couple of days after the 4th of July, Jack’s parents left Jack home by himself so they could run some errands. Jack and Sparky went out to the front of the house where they began to play a game of fetch. Jack throwing a ball and Sparky chasing it down, and then running around until Jack could coax the ball from him.
“Come on, Sparky, bring the ball here,” Jack called to Sparky.
Sparky, tiring of the game, finally brought the ball to Jack and dropped it at his feet and plopped down, panting heavily, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth, with slobber dripping off of it.
“OK. Sparky one last time. Let’s go. You ready?” Jack said as he picked the ball up and threw it as far as he could towards the street.
Sparky got up and looked at Jack. If dogs could talk, there’s no doubt that Sparky would have pleaded with Jack, “No, not again. I’m wiped out.” But Sparky couldn’t talk and believing he had to get the ball, he took off.
Jack looked up to see where the ball had ended up—right in the middle of the road. That wasn’t so good. Sparky was speeding towards the ball, when Jack looked to the right and saw the mail truck coming down the road. Jack looked back to Sparky, and then back at the mail truck. And started running himself, “Sparky, Sparky! Stop Sparky! Come back Sparky!”
But puppies listen as well as four-year-old boys and Sparky kept on running. Jack turned his gaze towards the mail truck as it bore down on the ball and began to yell at the driver, “Stop! Stop! Stop! Don’t you see the dog?!”
Just as Sparky darted out onto the road to grab the ball, the driver of the mail truck slammed on the brakes. But, it was too late. The truck careened to the right and slid sideways down the road. Jack could see the left rear wheels pass between him and where Sparky was and heard a squeal.
Jack stopped running and stared at the spot where the ball had been until the truck had come to a halt, ending up about fifteen feet past that spot. Sparky was lying in the middle of the road, in a crumpled heap, the ball resting up against his head.
Jack walked slowly up to the dog. The mail carrier got out of his truck, taking the headphones off of his head. “Aw shit, kid, I didn’t see it,” the mailman said.
“Didn’t you hear me?” pleaded Jack.
“No. I couldn’t hear you. Man, I’m never driving with these things on again,” the mailman said, throwing the head phones to the side of the road.
Jack reached Sparky and got down on his knees next to the dog. It was obvious that Sparky was dead, there was no life left in his body. Jack scooped Sparky up, the tears beginning to stream down his face now. Jack walked slowly back to the porch of his house and set Sparky down at the top of the steps. He looked out and saw the mailman place some mail in their mailbox, get back in the mail truck and drive off. As the mailman drove off, Jack noticed him cast a glance his way and then turn back to the road.
Jack sat there, with his dog’s body next to him, wishing his parents were home. He so desperately needed somebody to be there with him. After a few minutes, Jack found himself walking towards his bicycle. He got on and rode out to the street, turning left, and heading towards the old woman’s house.
When Jack got to the house, the old woman was sitting in her chair, rocking slowly back and forth. Jack walked up to the porch and stood in front of Claire Barker.
“Look into my eyes, lil chil’,” she said to Jack.
Jack did and he realized that those bottomless brown orbs held the secret of life. That within those eyes existed the power to cause life and to end life. It was a power that Jack recognized could be used for both good and evil. What Jack saw in those eyes was the beginning and end of all things.
In the eyes of Claire Barker, Jack saw Sparky laying on the porch. As he watched, Sparky got shakily to his feet took a couple of steps and then sat down again. After a couple of seconds, he began to whine, and eventually lay down with his head on his front paws.
“Go to him, boy.”
Jack pulled himself away from the old woman’s gaze and ran down the weedy path to his bike. He got on and pedaled furiously towards home. There on the porch was Sparky, with his head on his paws. When Sparky saw Jack riding up the drive, the dog ran down the steps and greeted Jack, jumping and licking and nibbling, just like the day Jack got him.
Later that evening, after Jacks’ parents had returned home, and they were cleaning up after dinner, Jack asked his mom, “Who lives at that old house down the road?”
“Which house, Jack? The house at the end of the road?” asked Jack’s mom.
“Yeah.”
“Nobody does, Jack. Our realtor told us that nobody has lived there for years.”
It would be years before Jack returned to the Barker House, the house at the end of the road.
THE EYES OF CLAIRE BARKER
The summer of Jack’s twelfth year, his family moved. Jack wasn’t thrilled to be leaving. He had friends and he was about to go into the seventh grade. It’s hard enough to start seventh grade with kids you know, but to move during that summer between sixth and seventh grade and start seventh grade in a new town with unknown kids made it all the more rougher.
The saving grace of the move was that Jack’s family was moving from congested, smog-infested city to a small town in the rural Midwest. The name of the town isn’t important. The house, though, the Barker House was, and still is, important. As Jack would learn over the years, that house, although it was just down the road from Jack’s new home, wasn’t really at the end of the road. It was at the center of all things.
But this story isn’t about what Jack would learn later on. This story is about that first summer, when Jack lived on the other side of a small hill from the Barker House, and learned firsthand the real power that resided at the Barker House.
The move took place the week after sixth grade was over. Jack and his parents drove cross country with a moving van following as they went. When they pulled up in front of their new house, Jack jumped out of the car and ran up the front steps, yelling to his mom, “Where’s my room?”
“It’s on the second floor, honey. You’ll be all by yourself.”
Jack pushed open the front door, found the stairs, and raced up, taking the stairs three or four at time. The house was a small two-story, with a loft upstairs. Downstairs was a large family room, a kitchen, and a master bedroom. The house had a porch that wrapped around it on three sides. In the back, there was a door, and another set of steps that led to a backyard that gradually sloped down to a small creek that represented the property line. The yard wasn’t fenced in.
The loft was Jack’s room. The best part of it was that it had a door to the outside and there was a small balcony there. When Jack discovered it, he immediately opened the door and went out to stand on the balcony. Jack looked out over the surrounding area. From the balcony he could see180 degrees from east to north to west. On the east side of the house, the road led over a little rise in the land. Jack could see the top of a house just poking over the rise. His eyes were drawn to it.
All Jack could see was the peak of the house and a battered weather vane perched on that peak, spinning wildly. Jack thought it was odd since there was no wind. As Jack looked at the weather vane, it slowly came to a stop. When it stopped, it was pointing directly at Jack. The hairs on the back of Jack’s neck stood on end and a slight tingle shimmied down Jack’s spine.
The next morning, when Jack woke up, he went out to the balcony to survey his new kingdom. His eyes were drawn once again to the house on the other side of the rise and the weather vane. It was still pointing straight at him.
“Can I go for a ride on my bike?” Jack asked his mom, after breakfast was finished.
“Sure. Just don’t go too far. You don’t know your way around here, yet,” replied his mom.
Jack got his mountain bike out of the garage, which was full of boxes waiting to be unpacked, strapped on his helmet and rode down the drive to the street, Barker Lane. He turned left and pedaled up the rise. As Barker Lane crested the rise and began its descent down the other side it went from asphalt to gravel. A short ways off, at the end of the gravel road, stood the house with the weather vane. It was still pointing at Jack.
The house was a ramshackle three story Victorian. One of the windows on the first floor had broken and been boarded up. The outside hadn’t seen a new coat of paint in decades and the yard wasn’t really a yard anymore, it was just a large patch of weeds.
Jack rode towards the house and pulled up in front of it, stopping his bike next to the mailbox, which was perched at an angle and looked as though one touch would send it toppling to the ground. Jack looked down at the mailbox and barely made out the word “Barker” on it. The letters had once been black, but now they had faded so much that it was just the slightest of outline that formed the word.
When Jack looked up again, he realized he wasn’t alone. Sitting in a rocking chair on the porch by the front door was an old woman. She wasn’t moving, but she was looking right at Jack. Jack glanced up at the weather vane and saw that it was still pointing at him, too. He wondered if there was some mystical connection between the woman and the weather vane.
“Whatcha doing, lil chil’?” the woman suddenly yelled to him.
“No-no-nothing,” stuttered Jack in reply.
“Whatcher name?”
“Jack.”
“Well, come on up here, boy. I won’t bite.”
Jack hesitated for a moment. Years of being told not to talk to strangers had had their effect and he was reluctant to just do as this woman said. But, he did so anyway. She was an old woman. What could she do to him?
Jack walked up to the front porch, making his way through the weeds that had overgrown the path, and sat down in a chair next to the old woman. She was wearing an old calico print dress. She had thinning white hair--it sure wasn’t gray anymore--it was pure white. But, it was thin enough that her scalp showed through in places. The wrinkles on her face had wrinkles of their own.
“I’m Claire Barker,” the woman said, hacking after introducing herself, as though she was going to cough up a lung. Once the fit was past, she asked, “What’s your name?”
“Jack.”
“How old are you?”
“Twelve.”
“Ya new around here?”
“Yes. We just moved in yesterday.”
“Thirsty?”
“A little.”
“Why don’t you go on inside. I made some lemonade first thing this morning. I had a feeling I was going to have a young visitor today.”
“That’s OK, Ms. Barker. I don’t need anything.”
“What do you mean, you don’t need anything? You just said you were thirsty. Get on in there and get yourself a glass of lemonade and bring me out a glass, too. It’s going to be hot one today.”
Jack mumbled “OK” and got up from his chair. He crossed to the screen door and opened it, entering the house. The old screen door slammed shut--"whack”-- behind him, causing him to jump and look back behind him. The interior of the house looked a lot better than the outside. It was well-kept. Most of the furnishings looked like prized antiques. Everything was in its place.
Jack made his way through the front room to the kitchen. In the refrigerator was a freshly made pitcher of lemonade, just as the woman had said. And on the counter were two glasses.
Jack got some ice out of the freezer, filled the two glasses, and walked out to the porch. He handed a glass to the woman.
The woman took a sip of her lemonade, smacked her lips and said, “Aaah. Nothing better than an ice cold lemonade. Is there boy?”
“It’s very good. Thank you, Ms. Barker,”
“My, you’re a polite one. Your parents would be proud. No need to thank me. And you call me Claire. Nobody’s ever called me Ms. Barker. There’s no need to start that now.”
Jack and Claire sat there silently, drinking their lemonade. When Jack was finished he got up and said, “It’s time for me to go. Thanks again for the lemonade.”
“No problem, boy. Just remember. Anytime you want some more, there will always be a pitcher of fresh lemonade in the refrigerator,” said Claire. “Before you go, come on over here.”
Jack got up and walked over to Claire’s chair.
“Lean down, chil’, and look at me.”
Jack leaned down and looked at Claire’s face. He was drawn to her eyes. Claire’s eyes were brown and seemed bottomless. There was a depth to them that seemed unreal. As Jack leaned over and looked into Claire’s eyes, he felt like he had been swallowed up by them.
“Listen to me, lil chil’. If you ever need anything, you come see me. Claire Barker will take care of you. You hear me?”
Without really realizing it, Jack mumbled “uh-huh” in reply.
“You go on home now. I’m an old lady and I’m getting tired,” said Claire.
Jack stood back up and walked down the steps, listening to the boards creak as he did so. When he got to his bike, he turned and waved to Claire Barker. She waved back. As Jack got on his bike, Claire got up slowly from her rocking chair and made her way towards the screen door. Jack was startled once again by the sound of the screen door slamming shut as she went inside.
Jack rode towards home. Instead of turning in at the drive, he rode on for awhile, turning on
different roads, exploring the area. After about forty-five minutes of riding, he made his way back home. When he walked in, he was hot and sweaty.
“Mom, is there anything to drink?”
“Of course, Jack. While you were out, I made a fresh pitcher of lemonade,” replied his mom.
A few days later, in an effort to make Jack’s transition easier, Jack’s dad brought home a puppy. It was an eight-week-old golden retriever.
“Wow! Thanks, Dad,” said Jack, as the puppy bounded around him and over him, licking his face and nibbling at him with his sharp, little puppy teeth.
“What are you going to name him?” asked Jack’s mom.
“I think I’ll name him Sparky.”
The next few weeks Jack and Sparky were inseparable. They spent every waking moment with each other, and Sparky slept alongside Jack in Jack’s bed. So, they really spent every moment of every day together. Sparky became the friend Jack so desperately needed in his new home.
A couple of days after the 4th of July, Jack’s parents left Jack home by himself so they could run some errands. Jack and Sparky went out to the front of the house where they began to play a game of fetch. Jack throwing a ball and Sparky chasing it down, and then running around until Jack could coax the ball from him.
“Come on, Sparky, bring the ball here,” Jack called to Sparky.
Sparky, tiring of the game, finally brought the ball to Jack and dropped it at his feet and plopped down, panting heavily, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth, with slobber dripping off of it.
“OK. Sparky one last time. Let’s go. You ready?” Jack said as he picked the ball up and threw it as far as he could towards the street.
Sparky got up and looked at Jack. If dogs could talk, there’s no doubt that Sparky would have pleaded with Jack, “No, not again. I’m wiped out.” But Sparky couldn’t talk and believing he had to get the ball, he took off.
Jack looked up to see where the ball had ended up—right in the middle of the road. That wasn’t so good. Sparky was speeding towards the ball, when Jack looked to the right and saw the mail truck coming down the road. Jack looked back to Sparky, and then back at the mail truck. And started running himself, “Sparky, Sparky! Stop Sparky! Come back Sparky!”
But puppies listen as well as four-year-old boys and Sparky kept on running. Jack turned his gaze towards the mail truck as it bore down on the ball and began to yell at the driver, “Stop! Stop! Stop! Don’t you see the dog?!”
Just as Sparky darted out onto the road to grab the ball, the driver of the mail truck slammed on the brakes. But, it was too late. The truck careened to the right and slid sideways down the road. Jack could see the left rear wheels pass between him and where Sparky was and heard a squeal.
Jack stopped running and stared at the spot where the ball had been until the truck had come to a halt, ending up about fifteen feet past that spot. Sparky was lying in the middle of the road, in a crumpled heap, the ball resting up against his head.
Jack walked slowly up to the dog. The mail carrier got out of his truck, taking the headphones off of his head. “Aw shit, kid, I didn’t see it,” the mailman said.
“Didn’t you hear me?” pleaded Jack.
“No. I couldn’t hear you. Man, I’m never driving with these things on again,” the mailman said, throwing the head phones to the side of the road.
Jack reached Sparky and got down on his knees next to the dog. It was obvious that Sparky was dead, there was no life left in his body. Jack scooped Sparky up, the tears beginning to stream down his face now. Jack walked slowly back to the porch of his house and set Sparky down at the top of the steps. He looked out and saw the mailman place some mail in their mailbox, get back in the mail truck and drive off. As the mailman drove off, Jack noticed him cast a glance his way and then turn back to the road.
Jack sat there, with his dog’s body next to him, wishing his parents were home. He so desperately needed somebody to be there with him. After a few minutes, Jack found himself walking towards his bicycle. He got on and rode out to the street, turning left, and heading towards the old woman’s house.
When Jack got to the house, the old woman was sitting in her chair, rocking slowly back and forth. Jack walked up to the porch and stood in front of Claire Barker.
“Look into my eyes, lil chil’,” she said to Jack.
Jack did and he realized that those bottomless brown orbs held the secret of life. That within those eyes existed the power to cause life and to end life. It was a power that Jack recognized could be used for both good and evil. What Jack saw in those eyes was the beginning and end of all things.
In the eyes of Claire Barker, Jack saw Sparky laying on the porch. As he watched, Sparky got shakily to his feet took a couple of steps and then sat down again. After a couple of seconds, he began to whine, and eventually lay down with his head on his front paws.
“Go to him, boy.”
Jack pulled himself away from the old woman’s gaze and ran down the weedy path to his bike. He got on and pedaled furiously towards home. There on the porch was Sparky, with his head on his paws. When Sparky saw Jack riding up the drive, the dog ran down the steps and greeted Jack, jumping and licking and nibbling, just like the day Jack got him.
Later that evening, after Jacks’ parents had returned home, and they were cleaning up after dinner, Jack asked his mom, “Who lives at that old house down the road?”
“Which house, Jack? The house at the end of the road?” asked Jack’s mom.
“Yeah.”
“Nobody does, Jack. Our realtor told us that nobody has lived there for years.”
It would be years before Jack returned to the Barker House, the house at the end of the road.
posted by Sparky at 9:20 PM
4 Comments:
Luilu,
Thanks for the comments. It pains me as much as it does you, that Jack keeps cropping up as my main character. I'm working on it. And, I promise that you will play a key role in my next short story. The story is already percolating in my head. Now, I just need the time to sit down and write it.
As for your comments, I agree that it is predictable. I think if I every do something with this story, I'll rewrite it so that the boy doesn't realize the power of Claire's eyes until after his dog dies.
As for parents leaving a 12-year-old alone, I don't think it's too unusual. I'm also not about the antique comment -- I think most kids that age would recognize old furniture when they saw it. But, maybe not.
Again, thanks for the comments!! It helps to see what others think. What jumps out.
My feeling about this story is that it's pretty simplistic. But, it's kind of hard to pack a lot into a 3,500 word limit. The more I think about this one, the more I think it could be turned into a short kids story -- taking out the "shit" of course. Both of my boys read it and liked it. What more could I ask for?
Mark -- oops, eek, I wrote out three different comments saying the same thing, thinking none showed up! Well, forgive me!
I guess you know by now I am a nit-picker! EEK!
Judy
Okay .. here are a few comments in the few moments of uninterrupted time that I have on the computer ...
It's good to know that your audience for this story is "children" -- any particular age range? It'll help to when making the comments.
2nd paragraph, you talk about Jack's family moving from city to rural town .. name isn't important .. but the house, Barker House .. etc. As I read this, I assumed the Barker House was the house that Jack and his family would be moving into .. only to find out in the next sentence that it is not. I think it's a little confusing.
"But this story isn't about what Jack would learn later on" ... if it's not, than why mention it in the first place ... unless you plan to make this a series of short stories about Jack & Ms. Barker. Mentioning this makes me want to know what those other things are ... leaves me hanging.
The geography in this story has me dizzy .. first you say Jack's house is just down the road from the Barker House .. then you say it's on the other side of a small hill from the Barker House .. then you go on in detail once Jack is on his balcony taking in his surroundings with 180 degrees east, west, north, etc. I had to read it several times before I understand where things were ... I think there's either too much spacing in between references to location .. or just too much period. Also, you mention it being rural and a hill .. it seems to me pretty desolate .. but then Jack goes riding around exploring roads. I'm unclear as to whether he's in a neighborhood or not.
At beginning of the story, Jack isn't thrilled about moving. But when he arrives, he jumps out of the car and races up to the house. In my imagination, I envision the 12-year old whose just left all his buddies as just sitting there and looking out the window at this new home --- maybe expressionless as he takes in what he sees. I don't see him jumping out getting all excited.
In the description of the Barker House -- here's an area where I think you could spend more time giving us a picture. So far I'm imagining a dry rural area .. I wouldn't use a "large patch of weeds" -- patch really is a "small" word ... Give us a sense of age and feel, more than just peeling paint & a broken window.
In the dialog between Jack & Ms. Barker, she starts off with an accent or drawl ... but then loses it.
As he walks through her house, here's another opportunity to give us a "supernatural" feel for the place .. more description, what's going to leave an imprint on him .. let him get lost in the rooms or finding his way to the kitchen.
You write about his Dad making Jack's transition easier. Up to this point, there doesn't seem to be any difficulties in the transition. Also, why the name Sparky? I think that's a curious name and a reader would want to know why. It's at least a place where you can add more character info on Jack. Up to now, he's just a 12-year old who's been displaced.
Jack and Sparky were inseperable .. they spend every waking moment together .. slept together .. spend EVERY moment together ... Gee, a little overkill.
Also, Sparky is the friend Jack so "desperately" needs ... there is no sense of desperately needing a friend up to this point. Were there no other kids? Again, more opportunity to flesh out Jack & his surroundings and how this move has affected him.
The accident scene is a little confusing .. coming from the right, careening right, left rear wheel.... Jordan is sitting next to me now and says he's confused. Then again, he's my offspring, so it could be genetic!
I've stopped writing to let him read it, from beginning to end. Okay, here's the reaction. First thing out of his mouth: Is there a sequel? Second thing out of his mouth: What's the point? After letting him know that you're writing a story for kids, and would appreciate any comments about it, he thought for a few minutes and said that it's like a Goosebumps story but that you're not sure what's happened at the end of the story. He wants to know again what the point is and is there a message you're trying to get across. He says it seems like there should be more.
Back to me now ... when Jack looks into Ms. Barker's eyes, he realizes it holds the secret to life .. she can cause and end life .. good & evil. How does a 12-year old comprehend this with a look in her eyes? Intellectually and emotionally, seems like a lot for a 12-year old to "realize."
Overall, I think there's some good direction in this story ... maybe a little more character development and some reworking in verb tense and other grammar choices. I could get nitpicky about that stuff (mailman dropping of mail in the mailbox and then leaving in his mailtruck.... mail-mania!) I'd build up more of the supernatural feel for it ... and echo Jordan --- is there something more? The ending doesn't seem like an ending ... is there a next chapter?
One thing that "jumped out" at me was what I think is a grammatical error. "More rougher" is a redundancy. Unless you were using deliberate "poetic license" it should be either "more rough" or just simply "rougher".
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