This story is in no way, shape, or form finished. But, if anyone reads this (I never know if anyone actually reads this stuff), I would love to know what you predict will happen. I want to make it as non-predictable as possible.
The Hard Way
"You need to comb that nappy head of yours, big nose!" A wad of spit the size of a malt-ball splashed against the side of my face, and dripped down. In a rage of anger and embarrassment, I turned around and took off for home. My disgust of the slimy spit that was stuck to me, which I refused to touch, made the journey to my house seem twice as long as usual, even though it was just around the corner.
My mother, hearing my stomps upon our wooden front porch steps, rushed out of the kitchen to the front door to see what all the noise was about. Before I could insert my key in the lock, the door swung open to reveal my mother with her hand on her hip and her eyebrows drooped into a puzzled frown. I attempted to run upstairs to avoid any interrogation about my appearance, but before I could reach the staircase, she grabbed me with one arm and forced my body to turn toward hers. I was face to face with the one who I had grown to know as the most beautiful woman in the world. As a self-proclaimed fashonista, her outfit, along with the rest of her style, looked as though she had walked straight out of the trendiest fashion magazine. On that day, her hair, which would range from a bone-straight bob to waist-length brunette, was shoulder-length, burgundy, and crimpy. Blood-red lipstick covered her lips, and blue eye-shadow surrounded her eyes. Her abnormally long lashes fluttered vigorously, as she asked me "what is the matter with you?"
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