I’m one of the writers submitting work to our writer’s group this month. I’ve submitted the first few raw pages of a brand-new story I’m birthing in my imagination. I think I’ve mentioned it before. It’s about a little boy named Toby Turnkettle. Here’s a little snippet:
Toby Turnkettle was an orphan.
But not an orphan in the usual sense. You see, his parents had not died, they had unexpectantly stopped living life. For the past three years, Mr. and Mrs. Turnkettle had been sleeping in a coma. A sugar coma, to be more precise. And in case you’re thinking you know what a sugar coma is in the usual sense—a state of lethargy from eating too much sugar, usually after common rituals like Halloween and Easter—then you are greatly mistaken.
In case you’re thinking this is a biography-type story about a little boy who successfully lived at home alone, you’re wrong. And neither is this is a story about an orphan being reunited with his living parents.
No, this is a story about a young boy who had no idea who he really was and the adventures that were owed to him. And they are all mostly true.
Our story starts with someone’s death. Not his parents, in case you were concerned. For even though you don’t know Toby well, anyone whose parents have died draws sympathy. No, it was the death of someone Toby did not know.