The Mulch Pile
Copyright 2011 by Albert Berg
Published at Smashwords
You're not going to believe this story. Maybe that's for the best. To tell you the truth, I don't know if I really believe it myself anymore. Maybe it's just a story I tell myself so that I won't have to remember the Truth. But Terrence is dead; that much you can believe.
He should have been the one to write this, Terence I mean. He was always real good with this kind of thing. But now he's gone, and it's just me left to tell the tale. You probably won’t believe it, but for my sake, for Terrence's sake, remember.
Time's a funny thing isn't it? It doesn't seem like that long ago, but my calendar says ten years have passed since all this stuff happened. Ten years.
We were both kids then. I was twelve, and Terrence was nine. It's really his story when you get right down to it. I was there for most of it, but he was the one who...well I don't want to get too far ahead of myself.
Terrence was what some people call a child prodigy, which means he was real smart right from the start. I think he might have learned to read before I did, though to be honest that's not saying much. Mom always tried to encourage me to read more, but it just never took. Mom loved books more than anyone I know. She told us that father used to like to read too, but I had a hard time believing father had ever liked to do anything but drink.