This was first post on Jun 13 2008 and It had the very first story by someone else.

Oh my goodness another week of bad accents from me.

We had a 50/50 split on the votes for this one and the challenge story. Thank you Joseph.

Download and listen to the Audio version of Ten Reasons

Prompt from http://www.creativewritingprompts.com/ prompt # 301

Come up with 10 good reasons why you should not write your life story.

Bad Things
By: Joseph Santos

There is man reasons that I should not write my life story. I cannot think of anyone who would want to read something as depressing as my life. But foremost, in knowing my life, you may come to know the end of yours. In saying that, you may not want to read further.

Since you’re here despite my warning, let’s not be strangers, you should know the name of the man who might bring him to your door. My name is Dillon Stevens, I have spent a long, hard 20 years in this world. I came into this world like most anyone, with some exceptions. My mother raised me on her own for as long as she could, eventually I ran away at 16. I am sure you have already began to pass judgment on me. If I were in your shoes I would too… what I would give to be in your shoes, I am tired of mine, they hurt.

My mother did the best she could for me. At times working many jobs just to make sure we had a place to live and food to eat, we even had enough to get a radio so I could catch my favorite shows. She always told me that I was special, as good mothers do. When she was around she gave me the love that all children in this world deserve. For that, I love my mother dearly. Not a day goes by where I am not lost in the thoughts of what could have been if things were normal.

My life began to change when I was 10 years old. I was going to school, like any other day. My mother was getting ready to leave for her shift at the dinner 4 miles down the road. She would walk, we couldn’t afford a car. As she was leaving she did as she always did. She stopped and said, “You be a good boy Dilly and do as you’re told. I won’t be home when you get home from school. Mary is sick today so Johnny is letting me pickup her shift.”

“Ok Mama. Have a good day.”

She kissed me and started walking down the road.

Twenty minutes later the bus arrived. There was a new bus driver, a kind-faced young woman of about 25 driving the bus. There was about 5 or 6 kids on the bus already. She pulled to a stop and opened the door. I walked to the door of the bus and stopped. She then asked, “Yuh comin to school son?”

I stopped, something wasn’t right, something wouldn’t let my feet go any further.

She said, “Well, you comin or ain’t ya? We gotta get a move on.”

That is when I saw him, for the first time I can remember. Sitting against the window in the back of the bus. It seemed as if time stopped, the color and happiness of the morning had been sucked away. Everything seemed dark, like the sun had taken a break and the moon stepped in while it was away. Then everything faded to complete darkness.

The next thing I remember is sitting on the front porch again, my mother hugging me tightly weaping. I pushed back and asked, “What’s wrong Mama? Get off me!”

Through the tears and hesitating breath she said, “I can’t believe your alive! I thought I lost you. Why didn’t you get on the school bus? They told me what happened just as I was gettin’ to the dinner. Johnny drove me straight to the river, we got there as they were pulling the…” her voice broke, I could feel her tears rain down on me as she held me tight. “They were pulling them out from the river one at a time. We waited, I couldn’t watch. Johnny told me you weren’t there. That they pulled everyone out and you weren’t there. Johnny drove me home an’ you where right where I left ya.”

She gripped me tight, as if she would lose me if she let go. Still not understanding what she told me, I pushed back and said, “Mama, get off me, I don’t know what you’re saying. Why are you crying, what’s wrong?”

She said, “I don’ know how to tell you this son, a boy your age shouldn’t have to hear such things. The bus driver musta made a bad turn and the bus rolled into the river. Everybody…” her voice struggled, “Everybody on the bus has gone to be with God now son.”

“There…there dead?” I replied.

“Yes Dilly, I…” she broke again.

It was like being in a bad dream. What happened? Why didn’t I get on the bus? Who was that in the back, no grownups besides the driver were ever on the bus. It looked like he was smiling at me.

From that day forward everything was different. We never once again mentioned the bus or what happened. Any time I would ask about that day my mother would be visibly disturbed and would rapidly tell me to give them my respect by not mentioning them and letting them be in peace.

In thinking that I had perished with the rest of the children on my bus, my mother lost a bit of herself. No longer was she the brightness that greeted each day. Now she was paranoid of everything. She decided it would best that I be kept home and not send me off to school. She would say, “When I was lil’ we never went to no school, Ma an’ Pa taught us everything we needed to know to get by in life an’ to get us ready for the next.”

It wasn’t what I wanted, but at that age it wasn’t going to be about what I wanted, Mama’s words were law.

Mom took up doing laundry for folks out of the house so we could still have a place to live. I would help her to make the time pass. It paid some bills, but it wasn’t enough to keep the electricity running or to pay for much food.

The next winter was brutally cold. The kind of cold that pierces through to the very marrow of your bones. No walls nor roof nor clothing was going to deny this cold entry. I was stricken with a fever, my mother tried for two days to break it with no luck. Fearing that my body could not take much more, she finally gave in and had to bring me to the hospital in town. She had to walk down to the dinner to get Johnny to drive us. I was admitted and within a day thanks to the wonders of modern medicine my fever broke.

The next morning I was released from the hospital. We were in the lobby, my mother was talking to the doctor, thanking him for all he did. As we turned to leave, I noticed someone standing in the corner. I looked over, it was him, the man that I had seen two years earlier sitting in the back of the school bus, standing there, smiling at me. No darkness this time. He had a look of intent, but smiling at me. It was a look my Mama told me I get when I was thinking of something bad to do. Startled and alarmed I turned toward my mother and almost in a shouting voice said, “Mama! I saw that man on the school bus the day it crashed! I thought everyone on the bus died!”

I turned back to point and there was only an empty corner. Concerned my mother got down to eye level with me and said, “Who did you see Dilly? What did he look like? You never said nothin’ bout no man Dillon.”

My mother rarely called me Dillon. It was reserved for two occasions, when I was either in trouble or if she really wanted my attention.

I said, “There was a man sitting in the back of the bus, I think he smiled at me. I don’t know why he was on there.”

“He was on the bus? Did anyone else see him?”

“I guess so, I don’t know, he was on there before my stop.”

“What did he look like? Did he say anything?”

“No, he was just there, smiling. He had dark hair and light eyes. He looked like he could have been family.”

What happened next was then frightening to me. She had a sudden look of panic. Frantically she grabbed me by the wrist and we ran to the front desk. My mother began pleading with the nurse to get every one out of the hospital, that people were going to die. She kept saying, “He’s here, ya have to leave now! Get them all out, please!”

The nurse said, “Ma’am, if you don’t leave now we will call the police. Please, we don’t want any trouble, there are sick people here, you have to leave.”

After this my mother grabbed me again and we hurried from the hospital. She would not look at me or answer any of my questions. Looking up I saw that she had tears streaming from her face, though in this cold they seemed to freeze instantly.

No sooner than we reached the sidewalk by the hospital that there was a thunderous explosion. Brick and glass seemed to be coming from everywhere. From inside what was remaining of the hospital came a sound that still haunts my dreams to this day. The cries of dozens of people pleading for help.

Though I could see no faces through the dust smoke and flame, it was all too obvious what was happening. They came to be healed only to be leaving there, but not on their feet.

My mother was sitting on the frozen ground with her head in her hands, she was bleeding from her face where a shard of glass grazed her, she was repeating herself over and over, “I tried to tell her, why didn’ she listen to me?”

The fire truck showed up, but only to be greeted by the sounds of collapsing ruble and crackling fire. The cries of those who were in torment within the ruins were all in silence now.

Later a fire fighter told me that it looked as if one of the boilers exploded setting off a chain reaction of other explosions nearly leveling the entire structure.

After that day, my mother never spoke again. The rescue worker told me this can happen when people witness something as traumatic as what we saw that cold day. He asked if there was anyone that I could call to stay with us a couple of days while my mother came to. I lied.

They took us home, after that day, it was my job to take care of things. My mother never spoke much less make eye contact with me. I miss what she used to be. Now it was almost like living with a stranger.

For two years I was now responsible for keeping a roof over our head. I took in clothes and cleaned them. I fed and cared for myself and my mother. No parent would ever ask that of their child, but she didn’t have to. When she was herself, she showed me a love that I now have in myself. I love her so I had to do what she would have done for me.

The spring of my twelfth year I awoke to a knock on the door. Answering in my pajamas I was now face to face with him. He stood there, calm, a slight smile. Hair slicked back, looking as if a new coat of Dapper Dan had just been applied. He reached out a hand as if to shake mine.

I pulled back, but unable to move my feet, unable to breath. I could not utter a word. Standing there, not wavered by my lack of courtesy, still bearing a smile. He spoke in a voice that did not belong with someone that looked like him. It was raspy and low, he said, “I am here for what is mine.”

He put his hand on my shoulder. I felt as if my life left me. I blacked out, awaking in a field of green. There was a soft breeze, I felt warm and happy, carefree.

I don’t know how long I was out for, but I awoke to find the sheriff there and an ambulance. There was a medic rolling a gurney with what looked someone sleeping with the sheet pulled over their face. The sheriff sat next to me and said, “Son, are you alright? What are you doing out here?” Shouting to the medic, “Hey, the boy is over here! He’s alive, but he don’t look so swell!”

I was about 20 feet from the front door of my house leaning against a tree. I could feel something warm rolling over my face, I touched it, it was bright red. I had never seen so much of my own blood before. I felt dizzy and nauseous, I vomited on the sheriff’s shoes.

He said, “Come on son, we need to get you looked at.”

“Where’s mama at?”

“I don’t know how to tell ya this son, but we don’t know where your Mama is. What happened here?”

“You don’t know where she is!? She was in the back room like always! Where is she!?”

“She isn’t there now, we don’t know where she went, from the looks of things she left.”

“How could she leave!? She couldn’t have left! And if she did, why didn’t she take me?”

“I’m sorry, but she ain’t here and it looks like she packed her bags and left right quick. You’re gonna have to calm down.”

“What happened? Who’s that the medic has?”

“Enough questions for right now. We will find out what happened, for now lets get that head of yours looked at.”

The medic sat me on the bumper of the wagon, checking my eyes and the cut on my head. He said, “You took one hell of a shot boy, but you’re ok.” He bandaged my head and cleaned the blood from my face.

I looked over my shoulder, the sheet had slipped away from the face of the person laying on it, it was him. I jumped to my feet and had ended up about 10 feet from the wagon, I shouted, “Thats him! Thats the man! What did he do to my Mama!?!”

The sheriff grabbed me as I went into a sobbing fit. He said, “Come on son, lets get you out of here while we sort this out.”

He put me in his car and we left as other deputies were showing up. Riding away I fell asleep laying on the back seat.

I awoke to a smell that had not passed my nostrils in what felt like an eternity. Breakfast. I was in a warm bed with soft sheets. The room was bright, it had to be about ten in the morning. The sun coming in fully through my window. My head was throbbing where the cut was.

Thoughts of the night previous coursed my head, adding to the throbbing sensation. Was my mother hurt? Why would she just leave me there on the ground bleeding? How could she leave, she couldn’t even dress herself? What am I going to do? I don’t have anyone.

I look around, to my right sitting in a chair, the sheriff. He said, “Didn’t think you were gonna wake up any time soon. My name is Emmit Hardy, I am the town sheriff. How are you feeling son?”

“My head hurts sir. Do you know what happened my Mama?”

“We haven’t found her yet, but my boys are still looking.”

“What happened to that man? Did he hurt my Mama?”

“It don’t look that way. We found him layed out in the front door way. Don’t look like anything happened to him, he just up and died. Enough about this right now, Mrs. Hardy made you some breakfast, we can talk more later.”

I ate like a animal who hadn’t seen food in a week. Mrs. Hardy sat there and smiled at me, giving an occasional look of concern over at Sheriff Hardy.

After I ate enough to fill a small army, we left and went to the sheriff’s office in the middle of town.

After sitting behind his desk and motioning for me to sit he said, “It looks like your Mama was running from someone. It looked like she packed all her clothes and left out the back quick like. Did your Mama have a automobile?”

“No sir, we couldn’t afford a car.”

“Do you know the man that we found at your house?”

“No sir, I don’t know him.” I didn’t want to tell him about seeing him before on the bus and at the hospital. I had a feeling that I would some how get in trouble for not telling anyone before.

“Hmm, well, did you see if that man had a car?”

“No sir, I didn’t see if he had a car.” How do you explain someone that just shows up when things are going to go horribly wrong?

“Well, I want you to be close till we figure out what happened. You are gonna stay with Mrs. Hardy and I for a few days. We still have our boys clothes from when they were your age.”

“Why can’t I go get my clothes?”

“My deputies are still looking your house over with a fine tooth comb, we better let them do their work and we can think about going back there later.”

I don’t know if he knew I would never be going back there, but it wouldn’t be until after I ran away that I would step foot into that house again.

Ten Reasons
By Jeff Hite

“Peter, you have got to be crazy,” Michael slammed his hand down on the table so hard the coffee cups shook. “The very idea scares me.”
“Michael, relax it was just an idea, and besides why not.” He picked up his cup and wiped the bottom off with his napkin, he repeated the operation with Michael’s cup and hailed the waitress to bring them more. “You have lead an interesting life, people might enjoy reading about it.”
“An interesting life, is that what you call it?”
“Yes, it has been,” and here he hesitated too long from Michael’s comfort, “Interesting.” He said finally. The waitress left more coffee and creamer on the table, but made it clear that there would be little more that she would do without them ordering something else. Fifteen percent of two seventy-five cent cups of coffee, was not worth the work she had already put in to them. “Ok so you don’t want to do that, lets see what we can come up with.”
“I can give you ten good reasons why I should not write my life story” he said stirring four packets of sugar into his coffee.
“Michael, You don’t have to…” But Michael interrupted him.
“Jane, Shara, Julie, the other Jane, Martha, Tina, Tamara, Heather, Veronica, and Sue.” As he said the names of the women he had dated, he ticked them off on his fingers.
“That is it? Your ten reasons are nine ex-girl friends and one current one? That is nothing Peter, lots of people have a string of ex’s epically in this day in age.” His twang was starting to bug Michael. It always did, ever since he had moved to the south he pretended that he talked like them.
“No, that is only reason number one.”
“Ok so tell me more. I bet you ain’t got nine more.”
“You’re on. Looser buys,” He said hailing the waitress and pointing to the Steak and Eggs on the menu.
“I’ll have one of those too,” Peter said with a smile. They waited in silence until she was gone.
“You know her brother,” Peter nodded, “he is in jail, and I put him there.”
“What? how, you ain’t no sheriff.”
“You don’t have to be. Three years ago, I caught him and a couple of his buddies holding up the seven eleven in Jamestown. They were pretty stupid about it. They didn’t even clear the store out before for they did it. There I was sitting behind the coffee machine using their WiFi, and in walk these two characters. So I turned on the web cam and turned it so it could see them, then ducked behind the counter. You remember that time I said I had jury duty?” Peter nodded and sipped his coffee, “Well I was actually a secret witness. What I didn’t know was
that her brother, is part of a huge gang that tends to bump off informants. That’s two.” He said with a smile across his face.
“Yeah two, you said you had ten. So cough up the other eight.” Their food came and they ate in silence for a couple of minutes.
“Right,” He said around a mouth full of steak. “Martha.”
“Now you can’t go using her twice.” Peter interrupted.
“Fine take her off the list. There are still eight other Ex girlfriends on it. Besides she is not really an Ex, she is dead.”
“What? I suppose after those last two you told me, you are going to tell me you killed her.”
“No,” He took a long drink from his coffee and then continued.
“She worked for the FBI or the DEA or ATF or one of those, she would never really be straight with me. She was the one who was assigned to protect me while I was testifying, they killed her three days after the trial was over.”
“I didn’t know I’m sorry,” Peter said, not looking up at him.
“Thanks, but It was a while ago. I still miss her and all, but… Anyway that is three.”
“Look we don’t have to keep doing this. You have some good reasons.” His fake accent had gone away and he was back to normal
mid-western muddle.
“No I promised you ten you get seven more. They are not all so bad.”
“Are you sure?” Peter asked.
“Yeah, you know mom’s favorite silk blouse?”
“The one she wore every chance she got?” Michael nodded, “Yeah I remember it.”
“You know why it was her favorite?”
“Probably because it was the only one she ever had. What ever happened to it?”
“I did.”
“You did?”
“Yup. I tried to wash it for her, and shredded the thing. It was an accident, but I could not tell her. It was from Aunt Margret Mallory.”
“The witch?”
“That is the one. She had cast a spell on it and when it got shredded it released mom from the spell. But if anyone ever found out that mom was not still under the spell, Aunt Margret Mallory would cast a much worse one on her.”
“What kind of spell was it?”
“You don’t want to know. Mom and Margret Mallory are still both alive. I want to keep it that way. That is four.”
“You don’t really believe all that stuff about her being a witch do you?”
“If I do or don’t it does not matter, She does and so does mom, and that is still number four.”
“You gents be having anything else?” The waitress spoke to them the first time since they had come in.
“Yes,” Peter Said, “my brother and I have a bet going on here. loser buys so since I don’t think he is going to win, I will be having a slice of that apple pie.” The twang was back.
“Same here.” Michael echoed this time imitating his brothers voice.
Peter shot him a look but only said, “You better get going brother. You owe me six more.”
“The Twilight Zone. Five. Six is…”
“Now wait a minute,” Peter broke in, “What about The twilight Zone.”
“Come on, I would not want to ever come to the end for the fear that it would be. I would just keep writing on this forever.”
“You are weird.”
“that can be number six.”
“What?” Now it it was Peters turn to get upset. “What do you mean?”
“I’m weird, that can be number six.”
“I Think that hardly counts, because you are different is why people would want to read about you. You have things that other people don’t. They don’t want to read about people just like themselves.”
“Yeah I head what you are saying but I am not different, I am weird, and people want to read about weird people only in stories, this would not be a story, it would be real life.”
“Alright I will give that one to you but no more freebies, from now on.”
“Fair,” and they shook hands over the table. “Alright then, number seven,” he said drawing out the last word and rubbing his chin.
“Your wallet is going to be lighter, Michael, I can tell.”
“I am just trying to decide which one to tell you first. I have it now. I hate the NASA Original seven.”
“What? Why?”
“They had those space suits that look like sliver duct tape stuck to them. With the hoses and their refrigeration units, and their perfect hair cuts. They were too perfect, hell John Glen is still too perfect, they remind the rest of us that we can never be like them. The are real life Super heroes and we can never be like them. I hate that.” He paused and took a bite of his pie.
“So why would you not want to write a book because of that?”
“Because as soon as people find out about that, they would hate me. Everyone loves those guys. It would be like killing Mickey Mouse or something, and they would never read another book from me. So now number eight, the kids.”
“And why not talk about the kids? You have you great kids, people would like to know about them.”
“Yes, my kids are wonderful if I do say so myself, but I don’t want the world to know about them, there are too many weirdos out there.”
“Ok Privacy is a good one. But you would not have to include them.”
“But then that would be like writing fiction, that would not be my life story, and if I was going to skip over that I might as well skip over everything else, and then I would be telling someone else’s story.”
“Alright, alright. Nine?” Peter said pushing his plate to the center of the table and leaned as far back in the booth as he could.
“Number nine is easy. I don’t want people a hundred years from now reading it and thinking they know who I am because they read a book about me. Or English teachers, with their high and mighty attitudes telling people I meant this or I meant that when really I meant nothing of the sort. They are always doing that. They always think they know so damn much.”
“Yeah why is that? They are always telling us what Shakespeare meant or, some other dead person, when there is no way that they could have known it.” Peter Signaled the waitress. “I think we are about done here if you would not mind bringing us the check, we should know who is going pay by the time you get back.” They waited until she was gone. “So it is down to the last one. And I am willing to bet you are out of reasons.”
“No, I have one more.” Michael smiled.
“So, don’t keep me waiting.” He said leaning up against the table.
“Peter, how old are you?”
“You know exactly how old I am, one year younger than you.”
“Yeah but how old is that.” The smile on his face grew broader.
“Well lets see I was born in thirty two, and it is two thousand and eight now, that makes me one thousand nine hundred and seventy six.” his face fell and he reached for his wallet.

Ten Reasons by Jeffrey Hite is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Based on a work at greathites.blogspot.com.