I’m going to put my writing energies over the next two weeks into writing a novel. I’ll give you the first few lines:
All us St. James Boys were standing around in Frankie’s kitchen. His mom wasn’t home and his dad was passed out drunk.
Richard twirled the .38 revolver on the countertop. We all touched it. Felt the weight of it.
Then Richard pulled the trigger.
When the gun went off, we scattered. Ran home. Hid.
What were we supposed to do? We were eight years old.
Frankie got shot through the liver.
But no one said a word.