Kewl! I'll send the whole thing to date (easier than separating out), but read as much of it as you like; the last section is the new bit.

I'm here now, Deb, and can look at it.

Yes! Send please. Sorry, I was away.

Bev, sending.

I have a mild dilemna. I now have to figure out the exact chronology, not of the events of the murder and why it happened and who did it, but how to reveal this stuff: that is, using what medium, archives, journals, the voice of the ghost in his head, etc.

Fuck.

A slightly different take on this week's challenge.

Reverie

What makes me old beyond my years? What makes him old and young togetehr?

Maybe it's his illnesses, so devastating? No, that can't be right; I've had my share. I played the mother to his child from my wheelchair, shattered and broken. Why am I the adult?

Experience, brilliance, creativity like a meteor, blazing from the sky's end? I don't believe that either. I'm brilliant, creative; I've lived most of a life, and can't legally drink yet.

"What are you thinking?"

I focus my eyes on him, ten years my senior, my lover, my child. "Nothing," I tell him. "Nothing."

Riffing on this week's challenge, and starting to sympathize with one of my villains:

In the Mind of a Villain

Slowly it dawns on George Tracy that he’s a failure. He’s surrounded by competent, brave men, and he tries to imitate them, but he’s like a child trailing after his older siblings, unable to keep up.

He never expected this. In school he excelled, knew just how to please the masters and avoid the bullies. How was he to know winning a place in a regiment took different skills, skills he lacked? But at this rate he’ll be a gentleman volunteer forever, never to earn the prestige—nor the pay—of an officer.

Yet still he has a sickly mother back home, brothers who must be educated, sisters who need portions. Maybe, just maybe, there’s an easier way.

Adult Now (100 words)

She looks older. Her eyes are tired as she plucks at my sleeve, says, "I need to talk to you."

I don't want to know anything more, but I follow her. I have always followed her.

"Look, you're an adult now. I need you to take care of yourself this year, okay? I know I can trust you to do that." A pat on my shoulder and she is gone by the last word.

Most teenagers would be ecstatic, but I am frozen on this chair. It's my senior year. I’m seventeen. My father is gone. My mother is too.

Oh, Kristin, how powerful and how painful.

I'm sorry, Kristin. But it's great writing...hmm, will have to see what comes up through the sackcloth and ashes.

Thanks both. Boy have I gotten a lot of writing out of that year...

I'm still pondering doing a companion piece to AmyLiz's piece about the parent-teacher meeting too.

Also, Deb, thank you so much for the ginger bread! It arrived today and is teh YUM.