Ashley M. Boutin, First Installment

This story (possibly an experimental-esque novella) parallels the commonalities between James Joyce's short story "Araby" and Ivan Turgenev's novella First Love. This installment is merely an introduction to the protagonist, Denny, and the antagonist, Sylvia.

Future characters and plot insight:

Lynette: Denny's mother. Her husband, a traveling salesman, or so he claims to be, is often away. Lynette suspects her husband's infidelity, thus provoking her to participate in her own "extra-curricular activities."

Glen: Sylvia's father. He and Sylvia reside in a one-bedroom apartment. Glen works as a mechanic and eventually engages in a brief affair with Lynette. He enjoys cheap beer and dirty magazines.

Lou Polk: He lives at the end of the hall in Glen and Sylvia's apartment building. He is a mysterious man, possibly a banker, who wears a suit and carries a briefcase. he spends his evenings as Louise, a voluptuous, blonde-haired woman who wears red press-on nails and smokes menthol cigarettes.
_________________

Sylvia

Incomplete

Ashley M. Boutin

“Tag! You’re it!” she shrieked, running past the boy and slapping his bare arm. He didn’t move. “You’re it!” she shrieked again, running further away from him towards the grassy hill, wanton curls bouncing on her back. Two small, blonde-haired boys trailed closely behind her, nipping like puppies at the hem of her floral-printed dress. Stunned by the contact her porcelain skin had made with his own pale, dirty arm, he didn’t move.

Once atop the hill she stopped running and turned around to see how far the boy was behind. The two others stood beside her, one on each side. “Dinny!” she shouted angrily towards him after realizing that he hadn’t obeyed her tag. He stared at her small, distant figure and felt an impending doom, knowing that Sylvia would punish him for not playing the game correctly. “I told you, you’re it!” she screamed, her crisp southern accent chiming. The pain in his arm trickled to the ground and soaked into the dirt. “Ok!” he shouted breathlessly in his soft, child’s voice and began running, clenching his damp palms in tight fists. “Run faster!” she screamed, jumping up and down. He squeezed his fists tighter. “Faster!” She screamed. “Faster!” He closed his eyes and sprinted, hearing her quiet shrieks harmonize with the thumping of his soles against the ground. Panting in unison with the melody of his steps and her rhythmic shouts, he sprinted faster, dropping the metronome’s weight and quickening his tempo.

Now at the base of the hill Denny opened his eyes. A blurry Sylvia stood with her dainty fingers curled around her plump waist, the two blonde-haired boys standing to each of her sides wearing angry fists. He stopped running.
“Dinny, don’tcha know you’re ‘sposed ta chase me when I tag you?” She wagged her finger at him as he approached her.
“Yeah,” he sighed, nodding slowly, eyes focused on the grass.
“Grab him,” Sylvia instructed boys in a deep, stale voice. Denny, still panting, didn’t resist her demand. The boys marched towards him and grabbed each of his limp arms.