Weekly Writing 1: Blood or Ink?

Hey guys, this is the story I have been writing for the past week.  It was for school and now that it is complete and turned in I wanted to share it here.  The formatting is for school.  Enjoy!

Blood or Ink?

By Nicholas S. Jozaites

Johnny sat at the table in the courtyard and scribbled words on a blank piece of loose-leaf he had ripped out of the guestbook. The words made no sense, nor were they meant to–He just felt like writing some of his favorite words.

White and silver confetti littered the ground of the courtyard and flew into Johnny’s face before being carried away by the wind. Bruiser’s dead. Johnny pressed the pen into the page until it broke through, and did it again until the loose-leaf paper looked like the bits of confetti that danced with the wind.

The doors behind him suddenly burst open, and through them came a beautiful young blonde woman dressed in all white, and a young, brown haired man in all black. More confetti fell from a basket that hung above the door and covered them both. An entourage of similarly dressed men and women followed in their wake.

How can any of them celebrate when Bruiser is dead! My hands are still soaked with his blood. In a burst of rage, Johnny removed his hat and threw it to the ground. He removed another piece of loose-leaf paper from his back pocket and once again began to poke holes into it.

A cohesive ringing of crystal glasses interrupted Johnny’s concentration; the man and woman kissed each other to quell the annoying outburst. The peace was short lived as the sound re-emerged every ten to twenty minutes. A man, dressed in a khaki suit with his tie untied and hung loosely around his neck, approached him.

“Why so sad kid? It’s time for celebration! Go out and enjoy the festivities.”

Johnny crumpled the loose leaf paper in his fist. “A time for festivities? My best friend died today! And here I sit amongst celebrators on a day they should be mourners.”

The man sat on the table next to Johnny and took a sip of his drink. “I’m sorry to hear that, um…” The man pointed to Johnny.


“Right, I’m Richard. I am sorry for your loss Johnny, but I did not know your friend. I’m sure he is missed.”

“His name was Bruiser, and he saved my life more than once.”

“He must have been one hell of a friend. Might I ask what kind of danger a kid your age could have gotten into, to need to be saved not once, but multiple times?”

Johnny jumped off the table, his fists clenched and his stance stern. “I am nine years old! I am old enough to get into plenty of dangers I will have you know.”

Richard put both his hands up as if surrendering, “I meant nothing by it Johnny. I was just curious.”

Johnny sat back on the table and pulled out another piece of paper from his back pocket. This page had no holes and was entirely covered in writing.

“You seem very well versed for such a young boy. Do you read a lot?”

Johnny whispered the words on the paper to himself.

“Johnny, where are your parents? Are you related to the bride or the groom?”

“My parents aren’t here anymore; they left awhile ago. It is,” Johnny, corrected, “it WAS just me and Bruiser.”

Johnny grabbed a brownie from the plate next to him and stuffed the entire thing into his mouth. Then he continued to read from the paper. The plate next to him was piled high with food, Fried chicken breast, cornbread, green bean and crispy onion casserole, two apples, and a giant pile of mashed potatoes with gravy.

“Hungry?” Richard asked.

Johnny’s face was caked with dirt. His jeans were ripped, his shoes were old and tearing at the seams and his flannel shirt seemed oddly intact.

“Sure am, never had such good food before! I was just passing by on my way home, and I noticed this table full of food. It sure beats the food from the dumpster by McKenzie’s Pub.”

Richard asked, “You mentioned home, where would that be?”

Johnny jumped up from the table excitedly and pointed to the bridge across the river. “Under there! I live with Old Muggard and Toothless Denny though I don’t like Denny

because he tried to steal my books once, so I had to hit him with a shovel. Luckily he didn’t have any more teeth to lose.”

Richard pushed his glasses back onto his face. “Johnny, are you homeless?”

An angry expression fell upon his face. “Homeless people have no home, and I just told you my home is under the bridge. No, I’m not homeless.” Johnny turned and continued to whisper the words from the paper.

Richard scooted a little closer to him. “How did your friend, Bruiser, die?”

Johnny suddenly looked concerned. “Uhhh. I had to do it, mister! There was no other way to have it end! All the pieces were in place and then boom, I had to do it.”

Richard asked, “You had to do what Johnny?”

Johnny lowered his head. “I killed him.”

Richard, flabbergasted, put his arm around him. “Why did you do that Johnny?”

Another uproar of clanging glasses, Richard turned to the table with the bride and groom for a moment. Johnny darted out from underneath his arm, and by the time Richard turned to him, he was gone.

On the ground was the paper Johnny had been reading. Richard picked it up and examined it, his eyes widened. It wasn’t the brilliantly annotated notes in multicolored pens that covered the page that struck him; it wasn’t the vividly detailed descriptions of fantasized worlds, nor was it the almost perfectly punctuated story outline. It was the name highlighted in bold black letters under the word Protagonist–Bruiser.

Richard shuffled through the words of the outline and came to the final act of Johnny’s story. After everyone he had saved, the lady under the bridge, the no longer loved orphan elf, and the homeless boy from the well; Bruiser, was unable to save himself.

Author: My Life Sentenced

I am a 28-year-old aspiring screenwriter. I am tired of the "safe" job bullshit ​and am well on my way to dreams.

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