Part 1

This is kinda half and half on fiction non-fiction, just so you know. A good chunk of it is made up Anyway, let's get rolling. It's written in novel form as well.

"Whee" I said, as I was applying truly ridiculous amounts of glue stick to the side of the box. I Grabbed the paper we were supposed to be gluing to the box and decorating and whacked it onto the cardboard side with a healthy SMACK! This unnerved Laura who was giving the summer reading speech to a family of homeschooled children.

I imagine you're very confused right now.

Alright, lets restart this with some background information. My Name is Dixon Caldwell, I am fourteen and liveng in the tiniest, most boring town imaginable, ornage county. Well, I don't technically live in it. My father, Peter Caldwell, teaches at an uptight, prestigious private highschool, Woodberry Grove, and we live in on campus housing. My mother, Kelly Dalton, works at the Public Library, where I am currently volunteering. My parents are NOT divorced, mom just thought "Kelly Caldwell" sounded stupid. My brother, Ian, is the bane of my existance. we abuse eachother regularly, but we have kind of evolved out of the whole "beating" phase, although he still grabs my collar sometimes and tries to be threatening (and when he does he's about as threatening as a dried trout.) I have been at the library the past few days, as I am volunteering over the summer. I am working on signing people up for the summer reading program via an ingenious system of pens and disorganized clip boards. Also working here over the summer is my longtime friend and my brothers girlfriend, Laura. We are abusive to eachother, because that's the way teenagers work. My boss over my volunteering, which I am almost certainly spelling wrong is Ms. Gillian, she's a nice person, although finds me a little jumpy and strange, a not innacurate description, certainly.

Okay. Now that you're caught up and such, we'll begin anew. Laura stops in the middle of the speech and glares at me, I don't see her as I am busy smooshing the paper into a submissive state, as paper is quite rily and unpredictable If you don't glue it down forcibly. She finishes up, and the people who she was signing up also gave me a strange look, given their homeschooling it probably means something along the lines of "Burn in hell, infidel." Maybe not. Whatever the case may be, it certainly wasn't a look that was shiny and happy.

After the children of the corn leave, Laura wheels over to me in her rollie chair and stage whispers; "Jesus! Loud much? This is a library, for gods sake." "Hadn't noticed", I say whistfully, further beating the construction paper in to a pulp. I guess I didn't notice that I had glued the construction paper at an awkward angle. Laura however, has. She grabs one end of the paper and lifts it slowly, horrible peeling noises being made throughout. I wince. For some bizzare reason, I have always thought of craft supplies of having human thoughts and emotions. As she peels the paper off, I swear I can hear cries of "No! Not grandma!" And The Fly-esque shrieks of "Help me! Heelp mee!"

The Peeling goes on for quite a while. After a while, the cries cease, and I sit in wonder of just how much fucking glue I put on that box. Apparently, enough to stick a herd of capybaras into a large, writhing ball. After about ten minutes (or so it seems) of non stop SHKKKKKKKKKKKKK the last bit of paper comes off of the box. It gives with a final, defiant, KKKK! We stare at the paper for a while. Then we burst out into spontaneous, convulsive, slightly painful laughter. We're like this for a while, and haven't noticed that Gillian had come over and was staring very intently at us. We stop, and look at her. A few seconds of this, and then she shakes her head, sighs, and walks away.

We're at our little workstation, a blue and brown wood desk in the middle of the library. We sorted out all of our box issues, and are now transcribing the words "Take home crafts" on one of its sides, as per Gillians instructions. After that is completed, with great gusto I might add, we are asked to throw random decorations on it. "How do you draw a butterfly?" Laura asks. "Hell If I know." I retort, drawing another evil death look form Homeschool Mom who has apparently been sitting in one of the cooshy bean bags in the kids area for several hours. "Library!" Laura whispers. "Curse less like a sailor, and more like Jesus." "Fine" I say. "Fuck all of you romans! I could give a crap about this crucifiction. Cause, you know, I can just go work for my dad. FUCK, my feet hurt." At this point, Laura has started convulsively laughing and covering her mouth so it's less noisy. Unfortunately, it doesn't quite work, and she sounds like a mouse deflating. I look up, and I am pretty sure that after my last bout of blasphemy, Homeschool Mom has actually run off to the bathroom to vomit.

More tommorow.