"A writer doesn’t write with his mind, he writes with his hands" –Madeleine L’Engle, ‘A Circle of Quiet’

I have been challenged and inspired by my recent fellow writers. I am plunging myself into a new project: completing my children's story that I began writing circa 2007 via blog. I will publish serially, following in the footsteps of my good friends Kayla Hambek and Charles Dickens. Chapter 1 here we go:

Chapter 1: Henry

Henry had tumbled out of bed rather late in the morning, but as it was Saturday his mother was not wont to scold. His skinny knees stuck out from the bedcovers as a luxurious yawn revealed a rectangular gap where his two front teeth should have been. He was the last in his class to start losing his baby teeth. He brushed his tousled, carrot-red hair off his forehead – a rather pointless gesture as the hair merely wisped back into his eyes – and scratched his head in an attempt to massage his brain awake. But before he could settle his thoughts, the smoky aroma of bacon invaded his freckled nose.

Henry lives on a small street with a few houses all rather alike with a kitchen, living room, a dining room, three bedrooms and one and a half bath (why you would want half a bathtub I’ll never know). Attached to the house is a two door garage, each door entirely too small for the monstrous sized cars that therefore thoughtfully improve the scenery as they bask in their cement driveways. In one of these houses, a tastefully tan one with brown trim, and a lime-green car basking in the driveway, sat Henry.

Now as all you very well know, the smell of bacon is rather irresistible in the morning so you know what follows. So I think I’ll let Henry wander down to breakfast while we consider more interesting things. I doubt you have yet to see anything remarkable about Henry, except that he has a shock of red hair and charming freckles. But unless you have quite the imagination you might not have realized how incredibly red it was, and how it makes his green eyes seem to glow like a cat, and his cream-tipped ears stick out like little marshmallows in a camp fire; in fact, you might have already forgotten he had red hair. Well, no matter. But I hope you’ll be more careful about such things in the future.

But the real reason I want to tell you about Henry is that he has a fascinating fascination. He is obsessed with light. Yes, “ordinary” light. Like the light you are probably reading by now. To everyone else a light means nothing special, but to Henry light is a world of mystery. A world to be imagined and explored. A world to cherish, even when others say “It’s only a light.

But in the meantime I think Henry is about finished with breakfast and we should probably head down his way.

Henry sat at the table surrounded by the remains of his massacred breakfast. Crumbs of toast outlined his plate and cup like brown dust, and bits of egg mysteriously floated in his glass of water. Henry sat alone, Mr. Fenwick had to get up early for work – even on Saturdays – and Mrs. Fenwick was busy cleaning in the kitchen. He had no brothers and sisters, which sometimes made his life rather dull. And his mother was adamant about having no TV for she said it would turn Henry’s brain to mush, and I must say I agree; therefore, Henry had himself and his brain. And perhaps that is why Henry has become so interesting in the first place.

Before bounding away to mental adventures, Henry carefully cleaned the table best he could and carried his dishes to the kitchen.

That being done, and the embarrassing hugs and kisses from his mother, Henry raced to his bedroom, covered his head with the blanket, and flicked his flashlight on, then off, then on, watching it intently and seeming to…listen?

Henry once asked Mr. Fenwick how lights really work. Mr. Fenwick was a very smart man and worked in a science lab where they wore white coats and goggles, mixed chemicals, and made things spark. Henry found it all very exciting, and couldn’t understand why when he asked his dad about his work it all sounded very complicated and well…a little boring. So Henry wasn’t surprised that when he asked about light Mr. Fenwick began to talk a long time about long words Henry didn’t know. Henry had a sneaking suspicion that Mr. Fenwick didn’t always know what he was talking about and made up really long words so Henry wouldn’t notice, but Henry would never say that out loud.

Henry, therefore, decided he best take the mystery of light into his own hands, and he spent a great deal of his free time doing so. He did other things of course; he went to school, avoided the school bullies, avoided answering questions in class, avoided the cold, stuck together lump of macaroni and cheese they served at lunch, but when alone--which was any time outside of school--you could be sure he was thinking about the light.

So here he sat under his covers, trying to watch where the light came from that suddenly lit up his flashlight when he flipped the switch. He flicked off the flashlight and stared hard through the gloom. Did it work like a telephone and call out to something, or someone? He closed his eyes so he could concentrate on his ears and flicked it on again. He heard something.