Three Pages of Heart-Wrenchingly Beautiful Story and They're Not Mine.

Frank asked me to proofread a short story assignment when I dropped him off at swim practice. "It’s on your desktop Mom," he said, before he got out of the car. 

I ran errands and made dinner, the usual mundane stuff of a mom's weeknight. It wasn't until I sat down at my desk to write, that I remembered his request.

I pulled the document up. Two paragraphs in, I sat back in my chair and took a deep breath. Then I printed his story, and read it. 

I overlooked the grammatical errors as I read three pages of heart-wrenchingly beautiful story. Magnificent. Painful. Creative. Stunning in its depth. In it, he is in his sixties, looking back on something that happened when he was a freshman in high school. He writes in the voice of a sixty-year-old man, who recalls the event in the voice of a fourteen-year-old. It is a very difficult thing to do, to get both voices right. He does it innately.

If his teacher does not recommend he enter it in a writing contest, I will. In fact, I will likely print every short story entry request I get, and I get at least one a day, and recommend he enter it. 

I have a very high opinion of Frank, in the same way every parent feels about their child, but this story is extraordinary. I intend to ask his permission to put it on the blog, so you can read for yourself.