8th grade life, no life...

My parents are cleaning out their house and have stored away many of the books that I left behind. I had more than 400 books at my mom's house. Everything from children's books from the 70s to all of my books from college. Among them were some of the journals I would keep, dating back to 2nd grade. It's so weird to read them again. But what's even weirder is that I found a journal that I used to write my stories and poetry in.

One of the poems was Satan's Scream, which I've posted before. The other was a story that I never finished about a group of high school friends who learn that one of their friends has a dark history filled with suicide and accidental deaths. They find out about his past from a new and mysterious kid at school. The friend with the dark past had moved away because he was sure that his best friend's suicide and his girlfriend's car accidents were murders. He was convinced he was next. So, he moved started a new life and never spoke about his past to his new group of friends.

I wish I had finished the story. The writing was juvenile, but the story and plot were actually pretty good. I was tripping out. I didn't use a computer, I would write everything down, and it wasn't the best way to write a story. I was 13, and I didn't have any patience. I was filled with happy nostalgia reading the story. I didn't do much as a kid or teenage, except write and read, so my memories are inside the volumes upon volumes of journals that I kept over the years, and rereading some of the favorite books I had as a child. It's kinda fun, and a little pathetic that I didn't have much of a life.