I keep unearthing stories I wrote when I was much younger. They are universally terrible. Here is arguably the worst, written during an in-class exercise for my senior-year high-school English class that was taught by my mother.

The day was wet and rainy. A perfect day for a murder, he thought as he lurked in the dark and cold alley outside the sleazy thug’s hideout. He lit a cigarette and nervously waited for something to happen. It happened. The door of the thug’s apartment slammed hard and large, hurried footsteps were heard on the sidewalk. A car door opened and shut again and a large and loud Camaro engine roared. He stepped out of the alley and made his move. Headlights went on and the screech of tires were heard many miles away. He pulled out his large military issue rocket launcher and aimed it at the speeding Camaro. Fire and noise erupted from the weapon and a rocket hurried to meet its prey like a cheetah after an unsuspecting antelope. The Camaro turned a corner and the rocket sped on until it hit a building. Darn, that wasn’t supposed to happen, he thought and ran back into the alley and disappeared forever.

My mom gave that one an A, and commented: “Write a mystery!”


Those goddamn Gap ads starring Sarah Jessica Parker.