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A tale of time, of youth, of growing up. Alan, a young otter, moves from his kiddie bike to a powerful new motorcar, with all the joys and dangers of each.
A warm glow surrounds Alan. Sleep beckons, a need to relax. It feels right to let everything slow down, and allow the whole world to recede. Off to his right, some familiar noise almost rouses him, but he’s not focused enough not to care. The delicate flickers of reds merge with unfocused blues and yellows. They recall times long ago when he was small, looking out at those same colours flickering through the frosted glass of neighbours’ front porches. He smiles. Cold fades to numbness as he thinks about Christmas trees.
Alan was all of seven years old. Gran was hale and hearty, her energy boundless, and her love for her only grandson meant everything to both of them. He begged her for a new bike every single day for six months. He didn’t want to be the only boy on the street without one — and it had to have a chain. His old yellow push-bike, a mere two years old, lay unloved and forgotten under a bush in the back garden. Its feeble power train — pedals set in the centre of the front wheel — were simply not good enough for an young otter that wanted real power and real speed, wind in his fur and bugs up his nose, like the bigger boys on their real bikes.
Gran pursed her lips each time he mentioned it, like she was eating a bitter fruit: the lines about her muzzle went taut. “We’ll see,” was the most he could garner from her, but at least she didn’t say ‘no.’
His cajoling redoubled after Hallowe’en. The persistent little otter dropped the hint as often as a seven-year old can, which was pretty much all the time. Gran looked exasperated each and every time, threatening him with the wooden spoon, even though he knew she would never so anything so awful. Occasionally he noticed a small smile cross her face. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but it had to be another good omen, didn’t it?
Then, finally, it was the week before Christmas. With no confirmation of what he was getting for his present that year, he set off mopily with Gran on their usual trip to do the shopping. Arm in arm they walked, Alan diligently dragging their little shopping cart behind him. They headed into the town square, Gran holding the umbrella over them and acknowledging the many friendly greetings she received. Alan felt a little buzz of pride. People knew her and always treated her politely. He would sometimes get a smile from the greeter, and now and again they would slip him a few coins for ‘being a good boy.” That made him feel good, because people loved his Gran, and he loved her too.
Halfway down the street he stopped outside the bicycle shop next to the bakery. The sweet smell of cream pastries and fresh bread mingled in the cold air with the baser scents of chain oil and rubber tyres. He inhaled the entire scene, filling his lungs to bursting point, just to hold in the sensation. Gran left him, her wide tail bobbing, and headed into the baker’s to buy some buns for their tea. Above him, behind the plate glass window, hung a spectacular sight: metallic mauve, extended handbars, a double-length padded seat, a full dynamo set, and just the right size for him! The tag read ‘twenty-nine ninety-five’. That was probably an awful lot of money. He had seven fifty in his post office savings account, but Gran wouldn’t let him spend it. He was lost in happy dreams when Gran returned with a white cardboard box tied with string. She handed it to him, warning him to put it at the top of the shopping cart so the delicate buns would not get squashed, then she looked up at the prize dangling from in the window. He stared at her face with a hungry look of hope and longing.
“Twenty-nine ninety-five,” she read, pursing her lips. “That’s a terrible amount of money.” Alan had his quick answers ready, as she knew he would. “But Gran, it’s really good and it would last an awful long time. See? It’s got a special seat that takes two! It’s really good, I’d love a bike like that. I’d go cycling every day and I could go places with my friends too.”
He didn’t go so far as to ask directly for the bike, so he was stunned when she stepped into the bicycle shop and walked up over to the wooden counter. After he got his wits together, he hurried in after her, curious and hardly believing what was happening. Gran was talking to the man, discussing things, then she took out her purse! His heart started to flutter wildly as the man, a tall and slim grey-furred goat, went to the window with a wooden pole with a hook, then carefully lifted the bicycle down and placed it before him.
“Now,” said the man, “this is a very fine bicycle. Just the right size for you too, young man. I might have to put the seat down a little for him, missus, but otherwise it should be alright.” Alan didn’t hear a thing. His eyes were full of mauve bicycle.
His mauve bicycle.
“Here, now listen to me.” Alan blinked and looked at the goat. He seemed to have met starry-eyed children before. “Don’t ever carry anyone on the seat with you. It’s not made for two and you’ll damage your wheels.”
A tiny sense of disappointment in an ocean of excitement, the idea of carrying two people suddenly seemed irrelevant. Gran handed over a huge wad of money from her purse, took the receipt, and waved her finger at Alan. “When we get home, that goes straight into the shed. It’s for Christmas, and you’re not getting it until then.” He agreed, and walked the bike home, while Gran pulled the shopping cart behind her and warned him how to behave over and over. He didn’t mind, though, as he counted off the eight long days before he could blast around on his wonderful new bike.
Gran glared at Alan through the kitchen window.
“No, no, NO, and that’s final!” she shouted through the glass, then pretended not to hear him as he bounced around the back garden in a fit of pique. She puttered around the kitchen, preparing dinner, her lips habitually pursed. She caught her frown’s reflection in the shiny surface of a saucepan and she sighed. “You’re getting old, girl,” she whispered, but before she could dwell on her wrinkles, a small whirlwind of energy came in from the yard, complete with Best Friend.
“It’s not fair, and Michael has one as well. I can’t go to my new school with THAT, it’s stupid and they’ll all laugh at me. I’m nearly twelve! This is a bike for kids!” The usual rant was still boiling away, thought Gran, but so be it. Let him stew for a while. It’s good for the character. “If I don’t get a decent bike for school, I’m not going!”
She turned and waved her wooden spoon at him, gravy dripping from it onto the floor, much to the delight of Alan’s cat, who delicately dabbed at the drips with her pink tongue.
“Alan, if you take that attitude in here, you won’t be going to any new school at all!” Her threat was pointless, but it still quietened the lad just a little. “But Grannnnn …” he wailed, throwing his head to the left and giving that look. Gran’s heart skipped a beat. He looked so much like … no, mustn’t let that show. She turned back to the cooker and sniffed, then greeted Alan’s best friend, Paul, who was sprawled all over the couch. Lanky individual, she breathed, as his hound-like features popped up and he gave his best smile in a hope to defuse an argument between Alan and his Gran.
“Hiya-Missus-O’Connor-I’m-fine-thanks-my-mum-said-to-tell-you-she-has-rhubarb-if-you-want-to-make-some-tarts-and-you-can-tell-me-an’-I’ll-bring-’em-over” he rattled in his always-too-fast way. Her Alan was so like his Red Setter friend in so many ways, just like his father … she coughed away the emotions once more and invited Paul to stay for dinner. As usual, he agreed immediately. That boy could eat for his country.
The conversation was, as usual, all about bikes. Gran picked at her food, annoyed at Alan’s continual scratching away at the subject, as if she didn’t know what he was attempted. Did he think she was born yesterday? Sometimes she wished she had been, with having to deal with this outrageous pup, but he didn’t have any harm in him, and he was really without malice, just like —
“Alan. Alright. No, stop, I’m talking to you.”
She stood up, and the two boys fell silent. She pointed her fork directly at her grandson, oblivious to the lump of mutton stuck on it.
“Right. If you mow the garden every week between now and your birthday next summer, AND you continue to do well at school, I will get you a new bicycle for Christmas.”
The rest of dinner was forgotten as the two tornados whooped and yelled, and dashed out into the yard to celebrate and play around on Paul’s full-sized bicycle.
“No, no, I’ll come. I’ll meet you at the bridge and we can go from there. Fine. Alright, see ya!”
The handsome young man that walked into from the hallway was a fine example of his species — stocky, but well-proportioned, with his powerful tail behind him and a lovely smile that attracted the girls before him.
“Gran? Gran! I’m heading into town. Me and the guys are going to Matthew’s place for the evening to watch some movies, alright? Back later! Byeee!”
Gran was in the kitchen, her muzzle greyer, her back more stiff, her pursed lips deeply lined. She sighed, looked at the dinner that was almost ready and exhaled. Another evening alone. Still, she would be able to watch her soaps on TV without a commentary from Mister Know-It-All.
Out in the hallway, Alan pulled on his coat and grabbed his bike. Six years old, it had withstood the rigours of a teenager’s respect for possessions with determined stoicism. The bottle-green metallic paint was scored and chipped everywhere, there was a rip on one corner of the padded seat, and rust was nibbling all over the chromed parts. Still, it was stable, reasonably maintained and as comfortable as a favourite sweater. Two seconds later, it was carrying its owner at full-tilt down the road and over to the river.
The guys were waiting. Mike and John and Peter, lounging against the wall by the bridge, laughing and jostling, with the latest object of desire before them in the car park. Alan skidded to a halt, leaned on the crossbar and exhaled in awe.
“Wohhhh … that’s brilliant!” he breathed.
Before them was a car. But not just any car. It was Mike’s car. He held up the keys and jangled them. “Shall we dance?” he grinned, his feline eyes glittering. They had to wait a few moments while Alan padlocked his bike to the nearest telephone pole, then they hopped into the car and roared away.
The night was a blaze of thunder, exhaust fumes and lights, and when Mike dropped Alan off outside his own door, the otter wasn’t sure whether we was giddy with excitement or motion sickness. He sobered up when he saw Gran standing in the doorway.
“Where’s your bicycle?” she asked, arms folded.
“Oops … I left it downtown. Mike has a car, you see —”
“And you’re going to leave it there?”
“I’ll get it in the morning, Gran! Gawd, it’s not going to be stolen or anything, it’s all padlocked, it’s no big deal, really, it’s not that important…”
And he pushed his way past her, then climbed the stairs to his room and stayed there all night. Gran had a lot of thinking to do and didn’t sleep at all.
A week or two passed. Gran had expressed her disapproval many times about Mike and Mike’s car. She called it a ‘death-trap’ and ‘dangerous’ and all kinds of things. Alright — it wasn’t the best of cars in the world, and he had got it from a dubious source, but it only cost two hundred and it worked! It was better than a lousy bike anyday, and once you got used to the smell of the fumes it was the business. The girls liked it too, but he didn’t mention that to Gran.
She, meanwhile, had got through a lot of heart-searching and eventually asked him to sit down with her. She took his hand in his and told him how much she loved him, and how much he meant to her.
“Gran …” he wriggled, feeling embarrassed and uncomfortable. Guys don’t talk about stuff like this, he reckoned, and Gran was being really clingy. “… It’s okay, really.”
“No, Alan. I have important things on my mind. Your father … my son … you’re all I have left of him now. I would die if anything happened to you. That car your friend has, it will be the end of you all and what would I ever do without you?” Her eyes filled with tears, a sight rare enough to scare Alan into silence.
“I’ve thought about it. I don’t want you to go around in that car.”
“But Gran —”
“No, my word is final. You’re going to college in the autumn and because you got the placement so close, you won’t have to pay for your accommodation. I saved up for that for you, and you won’t need it, so I would prefer if you would get a decent car and —”
Alan realised what she was saying, and burst across her. “You’re getting me a car?!”
She nodded. “Yes. A decent one, so I know you’ll be safe.”
He whooped and pulled her to her feet, and for a moment she recalled the oily smell of chains and rubber mixed with cream pastry, and a little boy caught off guard by a shiny mauve bicycle.
The happiness of each of these tumbling memories causes Alan to smile. He is close to sleep now, what he feels will be a contented slumber. The sounds to his right are familiar — ah, that’s probably Mike messing around, screaming about something or other. John and Peter must be around somewhere too. And sirens. I wonder why. We must go out for a drive sometime soon again.
Fading, his eyes slowly close, the Christmas lights of the emergency vehicles dimming away into the distance.
I wonder what Gran will have for dinner tonight…
oOoA warm glow surrounds Alan. Sleep beckons, a need to relax. It feels right to let everything slow down, and allow the whole world to recede. Off to his right, some familiar noise almost rouses him, but he’s not focused enough not to care. The delicate flickers of reds merge with unfocused blues and yellows. They recall times long ago when he was small, looking out at those same colours flickering through the frosted glass of neighbours’ front porches. He smiles. Cold fades to numbness as he thinks about Christmas trees.
oOoAlan was all of seven years old. Gran was hale and hearty, her energy boundless, and her love for her only grandson meant everything to both of them. He begged her for a new bike every single day for six months. He didn’t want to be the only boy on the street without one — and it had to have a chain. His old yellow push-bike, a mere two years old, lay unloved and forgotten under a bush in the back garden. Its feeble power train — pedals set in the centre of the front wheel — were simply not good enough for an young otter that wanted real power and real speed, wind in his fur and bugs up his nose, like the bigger boys on their real bikes.
Gran pursed her lips each time he mentioned it, like she was eating a bitter fruit: the lines about her muzzle went taut. “We’ll see,” was the most he could garner from her, but at least she didn’t say ‘no.’
His cajoling redoubled after Hallowe’en. The persistent little otter dropped the hint as often as a seven-year old can, which was pretty much all the time. Gran looked exasperated each and every time, threatening him with the wooden spoon, even though he knew she would never so anything so awful. Occasionally he noticed a small smile cross her face. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but it had to be another good omen, didn’t it?
Then, finally, it was the week before Christmas. With no confirmation of what he was getting for his present that year, he set off mopily with Gran on their usual trip to do the shopping. Arm in arm they walked, Alan diligently dragging their little shopping cart behind him. They headed into the town square, Gran holding the umbrella over them and acknowledging the many friendly greetings she received. Alan felt a little buzz of pride. People knew her and always treated her politely. He would sometimes get a smile from the greeter, and now and again they would slip him a few coins for ‘being a good boy.” That made him feel good, because people loved his Gran, and he loved her too.
Halfway down the street he stopped outside the bicycle shop next to the bakery. The sweet smell of cream pastries and fresh bread mingled in the cold air with the baser scents of chain oil and rubber tyres. He inhaled the entire scene, filling his lungs to bursting point, just to hold in the sensation. Gran left him, her wide tail bobbing, and headed into the baker’s to buy some buns for their tea. Above him, behind the plate glass window, hung a spectacular sight: metallic mauve, extended handbars, a double-length padded seat, a full dynamo set, and just the right size for him! The tag read ‘twenty-nine ninety-five’. That was probably an awful lot of money. He had seven fifty in his post office savings account, but Gran wouldn’t let him spend it. He was lost in happy dreams when Gran returned with a white cardboard box tied with string. She handed it to him, warning him to put it at the top of the shopping cart so the delicate buns would not get squashed, then she looked up at the prize dangling from in the window. He stared at her face with a hungry look of hope and longing.
“Twenty-nine ninety-five,” she read, pursing her lips. “That’s a terrible amount of money.” Alan had his quick answers ready, as she knew he would. “But Gran, it’s really good and it would last an awful long time. See? It’s got a special seat that takes two! It’s really good, I’d love a bike like that. I’d go cycling every day and I could go places with my friends too.”
He didn’t go so far as to ask directly for the bike, so he was stunned when she stepped into the bicycle shop and walked up over to the wooden counter. After he got his wits together, he hurried in after her, curious and hardly believing what was happening. Gran was talking to the man, discussing things, then she took out her purse! His heart started to flutter wildly as the man, a tall and slim grey-furred goat, went to the window with a wooden pole with a hook, then carefully lifted the bicycle down and placed it before him.
“Now,” said the man, “this is a very fine bicycle. Just the right size for you too, young man. I might have to put the seat down a little for him, missus, but otherwise it should be alright.” Alan didn’t hear a thing. His eyes were full of mauve bicycle.
His mauve bicycle.
“Here, now listen to me.” Alan blinked and looked at the goat. He seemed to have met starry-eyed children before. “Don’t ever carry anyone on the seat with you. It’s not made for two and you’ll damage your wheels.”
A tiny sense of disappointment in an ocean of excitement, the idea of carrying two people suddenly seemed irrelevant. Gran handed over a huge wad of money from her purse, took the receipt, and waved her finger at Alan. “When we get home, that goes straight into the shed. It’s for Christmas, and you’re not getting it until then.” He agreed, and walked the bike home, while Gran pulled the shopping cart behind her and warned him how to behave over and over. He didn’t mind, though, as he counted off the eight long days before he could blast around on his wonderful new bike.
oOoGran glared at Alan through the kitchen window.
“No, no, NO, and that’s final!” she shouted through the glass, then pretended not to hear him as he bounced around the back garden in a fit of pique. She puttered around the kitchen, preparing dinner, her lips habitually pursed. She caught her frown’s reflection in the shiny surface of a saucepan and she sighed. “You’re getting old, girl,” she whispered, but before she could dwell on her wrinkles, a small whirlwind of energy came in from the yard, complete with Best Friend.
“It’s not fair, and Michael has one as well. I can’t go to my new school with THAT, it’s stupid and they’ll all laugh at me. I’m nearly twelve! This is a bike for kids!” The usual rant was still boiling away, thought Gran, but so be it. Let him stew for a while. It’s good for the character. “If I don’t get a decent bike for school, I’m not going!”
She turned and waved her wooden spoon at him, gravy dripping from it onto the floor, much to the delight of Alan’s cat, who delicately dabbed at the drips with her pink tongue.
“Alan, if you take that attitude in here, you won’t be going to any new school at all!” Her threat was pointless, but it still quietened the lad just a little. “But Grannnnn …” he wailed, throwing his head to the left and giving that look. Gran’s heart skipped a beat. He looked so much like … no, mustn’t let that show. She turned back to the cooker and sniffed, then greeted Alan’s best friend, Paul, who was sprawled all over the couch. Lanky individual, she breathed, as his hound-like features popped up and he gave his best smile in a hope to defuse an argument between Alan and his Gran.
“Hiya-Missus-O’Connor-I’m-fine-thanks-my-mum-said-to-tell-you-she-has-rhubarb-if-you-want-to-make-some-tarts-and-you-can-tell-me-an’-I’ll-bring-’em-over” he rattled in his always-too-fast way. Her Alan was so like his Red Setter friend in so many ways, just like his father … she coughed away the emotions once more and invited Paul to stay for dinner. As usual, he agreed immediately. That boy could eat for his country.
The conversation was, as usual, all about bikes. Gran picked at her food, annoyed at Alan’s continual scratching away at the subject, as if she didn’t know what he was attempted. Did he think she was born yesterday? Sometimes she wished she had been, with having to deal with this outrageous pup, but he didn’t have any harm in him, and he was really without malice, just like —
“Alan. Alright. No, stop, I’m talking to you.”
She stood up, and the two boys fell silent. She pointed her fork directly at her grandson, oblivious to the lump of mutton stuck on it.
“Right. If you mow the garden every week between now and your birthday next summer, AND you continue to do well at school, I will get you a new bicycle for Christmas.”
The rest of dinner was forgotten as the two tornados whooped and yelled, and dashed out into the yard to celebrate and play around on Paul’s full-sized bicycle.
oOo“No, no, I’ll come. I’ll meet you at the bridge and we can go from there. Fine. Alright, see ya!”
The handsome young man that walked into from the hallway was a fine example of his species — stocky, but well-proportioned, with his powerful tail behind him and a lovely smile that attracted the girls before him.
“Gran? Gran! I’m heading into town. Me and the guys are going to Matthew’s place for the evening to watch some movies, alright? Back later! Byeee!”
Gran was in the kitchen, her muzzle greyer, her back more stiff, her pursed lips deeply lined. She sighed, looked at the dinner that was almost ready and exhaled. Another evening alone. Still, she would be able to watch her soaps on TV without a commentary from Mister Know-It-All.
Out in the hallway, Alan pulled on his coat and grabbed his bike. Six years old, it had withstood the rigours of a teenager’s respect for possessions with determined stoicism. The bottle-green metallic paint was scored and chipped everywhere, there was a rip on one corner of the padded seat, and rust was nibbling all over the chromed parts. Still, it was stable, reasonably maintained and as comfortable as a favourite sweater. Two seconds later, it was carrying its owner at full-tilt down the road and over to the river.
The guys were waiting. Mike and John and Peter, lounging against the wall by the bridge, laughing and jostling, with the latest object of desire before them in the car park. Alan skidded to a halt, leaned on the crossbar and exhaled in awe.
“Wohhhh … that’s brilliant!” he breathed.
Before them was a car. But not just any car. It was Mike’s car. He held up the keys and jangled them. “Shall we dance?” he grinned, his feline eyes glittering. They had to wait a few moments while Alan padlocked his bike to the nearest telephone pole, then they hopped into the car and roared away.
The night was a blaze of thunder, exhaust fumes and lights, and when Mike dropped Alan off outside his own door, the otter wasn’t sure whether we was giddy with excitement or motion sickness. He sobered up when he saw Gran standing in the doorway.
“Where’s your bicycle?” she asked, arms folded.
“Oops … I left it downtown. Mike has a car, you see —”
“And you’re going to leave it there?”
“I’ll get it in the morning, Gran! Gawd, it’s not going to be stolen or anything, it’s all padlocked, it’s no big deal, really, it’s not that important…”
And he pushed his way past her, then climbed the stairs to his room and stayed there all night. Gran had a lot of thinking to do and didn’t sleep at all.
A week or two passed. Gran had expressed her disapproval many times about Mike and Mike’s car. She called it a ‘death-trap’ and ‘dangerous’ and all kinds of things. Alright — it wasn’t the best of cars in the world, and he had got it from a dubious source, but it only cost two hundred and it worked! It was better than a lousy bike anyday, and once you got used to the smell of the fumes it was the business. The girls liked it too, but he didn’t mention that to Gran.
She, meanwhile, had got through a lot of heart-searching and eventually asked him to sit down with her. She took his hand in his and told him how much she loved him, and how much he meant to her.
“Gran …” he wriggled, feeling embarrassed and uncomfortable. Guys don’t talk about stuff like this, he reckoned, and Gran was being really clingy. “… It’s okay, really.”
“No, Alan. I have important things on my mind. Your father … my son … you’re all I have left of him now. I would die if anything happened to you. That car your friend has, it will be the end of you all and what would I ever do without you?” Her eyes filled with tears, a sight rare enough to scare Alan into silence.
“I’ve thought about it. I don’t want you to go around in that car.”
“But Gran —”
“No, my word is final. You’re going to college in the autumn and because you got the placement so close, you won’t have to pay for your accommodation. I saved up for that for you, and you won’t need it, so I would prefer if you would get a decent car and —”
Alan realised what she was saying, and burst across her. “You’re getting me a car?!”
She nodded. “Yes. A decent one, so I know you’ll be safe.”
He whooped and pulled her to her feet, and for a moment she recalled the oily smell of chains and rubber mixed with cream pastry, and a little boy caught off guard by a shiny mauve bicycle.
oOoThe happiness of each of these tumbling memories causes Alan to smile. He is close to sleep now, what he feels will be a contented slumber. The sounds to his right are familiar — ah, that’s probably Mike messing around, screaming about something or other. John and Peter must be around somewhere too. And sirens. I wonder why. We must go out for a drive sometime soon again.
Fading, his eyes slowly close, the Christmas lights of the emergency vehicles dimming away into the distance.
I wonder what Gran will have for dinner tonight…
oOo
Category Story / All
Species Unspecified / Any
Size 119 x 120px
File Size 339 B
Oh, and lovely story. Have to admit, I mostly skimmed, but such wonderful detail and your characters and situations are so relatable, unlike someone I could mention. Who hasn't desperately wanted a bike and mercilessly chipped away at their parent's resolve begging for one? Oy, kids.
Always such sad endings, too. I have a feeling you and
xipoid would get right along.
Always such sad endings, too. I have a feeling you and
xipoid would get right along. 
Ah, even when you see the ending coming, it still gets you...A beautiful story.
It speaks to me, in a way, since I'm at a similar point in my life. I mean, I never really did the whole bicycle thing and even if I did have a car I wouldn't be too keen on riding it everywhere (yeah, there's freedom and all, but I'm such a terrible driver). No, I think more of Alan's pleading for new things and Gran's exasperated giving in. I used to do that, but eventually you start to kinda feel bad when you ask for or get anything when you get older, y'know? I mean, you start to realize that your mom needs that $20 dollars she gave you to go hang out far more than you do, or helping you get ready for college and things. It's so sad, really; you can see Gran really loved her grandson and sacrificed a lot for him--and getting older doesn't help--and that Alan was pretty much all she had, and now...
I'm sorry, I've rambled too long. Adding this to favorites.
It speaks to me, in a way, since I'm at a similar point in my life. I mean, I never really did the whole bicycle thing and even if I did have a car I wouldn't be too keen on riding it everywhere (yeah, there's freedom and all, but I'm such a terrible driver). No, I think more of Alan's pleading for new things and Gran's exasperated giving in. I used to do that, but eventually you start to kinda feel bad when you ask for or get anything when you get older, y'know? I mean, you start to realize that your mom needs that $20 dollars she gave you to go hang out far more than you do, or helping you get ready for college and things. It's so sad, really; you can see Gran really loved her grandson and sacrificed a lot for him--and getting older doesn't help--and that Alan was pretty much all she had, and now...
I'm sorry, I've rambled too long. Adding this to favorites.
I knew the ending from the beginning, from the first sentence. But still... damn, man, you almost made me cry. I'm so happy that when I had that period of life, I had a damn tank under me! After seeing what happens when a tank crashes off the road, I didn't feel like trying it with a car. A tank can take it, tank crewmen can take it, but I am positive; A regular car and its driver, cannot take it.
Beautiful, grim, horrid, happy, eerie, shocking... you know how to bring the emotions of your readers to the surface. Well written, truly, I mean it. This tells so much about young men, despite the fact your characters are anthro. Replace them with human creatures, and you'd have a grand piece of mainstream literature.
Good work.
Beautiful, grim, horrid, happy, eerie, shocking... you know how to bring the emotions of your readers to the surface. Well written, truly, I mean it. This tells so much about young men, despite the fact your characters are anthro. Replace them with human creatures, and you'd have a grand piece of mainstream literature.
Good work.
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