The Disturbing, Brilliant Mind of My Youth

 

A couple of weeks ago, we got about two hundred feet of snow, and it was minus three thousand degrees, which turned into the perfect excuse to dig through totes and boxes overflowing with old papers and notebooks—things I’d been meaning to sort through and, honestly, get rid of for years.

In the process, I stumbled across a stack of short stories I’d written as a child, and tucked among them was an absolute gem. The title alone could hook anyone—it sounded like a full-blown thriller. But what really sealed it was the cover: a hand-drawn picture of a bloody axe, sketched right beneath the title. Priceless.

As I read through the story, I couldn’t find a date, but judging by the handwriting (which has never been my strong suit), I must have been around eight or ten years old. And there it was—the mind of a writer in its earliest form. A little disturbing? Maybe. But also revealing. You can see exactly where I come from, where my ideas are born, and how long these stories have lived in my head.

All of it has always been there. And who knows—maybe this childhood thriller deserves a second life as a full-length novel.