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Fiction. © Copyright 1997, Jim Loy
[Grade: D+ (inappropriate subject)]
This is a story about my friend Gunther, and how he died.
I stop at the library, every night, on the way home from school. I live alone with my mother, and she works until five, and she doesn't get home until about 5:30. So I have a couple of hours to waste. My mother and I think that the library's a good place to do that.
One day, I was in the library, and I walked by a table. And I saw that a book was open, with two whole pages of snow flakes. There was nobody at the table, so I sat down and looked at the book. Every page was filled with snow flakes. They were pretty. Some were prettier than others.
After a while, I noticed that someone was watching me. I looked up and saw an old man with white hair and a wrinkled face. He smiled. And he said, "Nice book, isn't it?" I didn't say anything, 'cause I'm not supposed to talk to strangers. He said, "The author is called Snowflake Bentley."
I wondered why the man knew so much about this book. Then it dawned on me that I was probably reading his book. I stood up and said, "I'm sorry."
He said, "Stay there. I'll find another book." I left anyway.
On another day, the same old man was reading an Atlas of the Solar System. I waited until he was gone. And then I looked at it. Neat book.
One day, I asked the librarian if they had any books on how to paint. We were painting pictures in school. The librarian showed me two books. I was browsing through them. And that same man set down a book of Monet's paintings, and he left. I thought about that. And I thought that maybe I could learn plenty by looking at famous paintings. I liked that idea.
He and I became friends after that. His name was Gunther. He pronounced it Goonter. He had a little bit of a foreign accent. He was a very nice man. We talked about lots of things. We talked about art and science and the past and the future.
One day we walked to the art museum. And there was a real Monet. I fell in love with that painting. I looked at the painting for hours and hours. It was magic.
Gunther had problems. He used drugs. I saw him buying crack. He was embarrassed that I knew that he did that. He didn't have the money to afford it. But he said he couldn't quit. Some days, he was pretty much wasted.
One day, Gunther wasn't at the library. And I thought that he might be sick. So I went to his place. I had been there before. I knocked on the door. And nobody answered. The door was unlocked. Gunther was in a pool of blood on the floor. I knocked on all the other doors of all the other apartments. But nobody would call an ambulance. I ran home and called an ambulance.
Gunther was dead. He had been stabbed. The police never figured out who did it.
I found out that his name was Gunther Schmidt. He was a nice man. I wish it was me that was killed instead of him.
P.S. My teacher gave me a D+ on my story. She didn't like the subject. I was afraid to show the story to my mom. She already knew that I had discovered a body, 'cause the police talked to her too. She was shocked by the story, I guess that describes it. But she said that the story was very good. She's going to show it to some magazine people.
Author's note: Of course, this story is fiction, including the D+. I was just wondering what might happen if a teacher encountered a really serious story among all the light reading that kids produce. And this story sprang up. I seem to have a deep abiding belief that there isn't a lot of justice out there. But, sometimes Mom pulls through.