Revised short story

Thanks to those of you who sounded off on my short story. I'd particularly like to thank my aunt, who took the time to organize many thoughts and suggestions and put them on paper for me.
Using the various suggestions and pointers that I received, I have revised the short story and post it again here for your consideration:

Someone to Stay Strong

I placed the phone back on the receiver, still in a daze from the information I had just learned. How could this have happened? How could they really be gone? The first part of the conversation repeated itself in my mind:

“Sam?”

“Yeah?” I had replied. “What’s going on?”

“I’m afraid that Jennifer and Johnny have been in an accident.”

“Are they alright?” I had asked, panic leaking into my voice knowing one of them would have likely called me themselves if they were.

“No. Jennifer was pronounced dead at the scene. Johnny was transported to the hospital in critical condition, but died shortly after arriving. I’m so sorry.”

The rest of the conversation was a blur. It had to be. I was in shock and disbelief from what I had just heard. Dead? Both of them? I could never see either of them again? Why had my two best friends been taken away from me?

I walked down the hall as these questions raced through my mind, assaulting my emotions mercilessly and feeling as if they might rip my very soul from my body. I entered my bedroom, feeling like I was in a dream and looked around at the neatly organized room. Everything in its place, just as it always was. I kept my room the way I liked my life, organized, calm. No surprises unless I was the one orchestrating them. But this… I did not see it coming. I picked up my keys from where I kept them on top of my dresser, next to the small display of Burger King toys of characters from the movie Toy Story and walked back the way I had come.

I drove to down the street on auto-pilot, hardly aware of where I was heading, trusting my instincts and habits to take me to the place I often went to reflect on things. The dark streets were empty of movement, save for the occasional pair of headlights, providing a glimpse of the damp surroundings as I drove through the light rain that had started to fall about the time I received that fateful phone call. There was no moon. Or, at least no moon was visible. No stars either for that matter. Clouds filling the entire sky, or so I assumed, not being able to actually see them. The blackness weighed down on me like the ominous message that kept playing itself out in my mind as I navigated the familiar path without thought or effort.

As I neared my destination, I parked my car a block away from the overpass, out of habit more than anything else, turned off the motor and felt the light rain hit my face and arms as I climbed out. The familiar overpass was barely visible through the light rain, no street lamps illuminating it or the surrounding area. Perhaps that is why we came here so often. Out of the way, always wrapped in shadows or the black of night and free from even occasional traffic. No one came here. No one but us. Everyone else raced along the interstate underneath. Blissfully unaware that this place even existed. Memory lane. That’s what we liked to call it. None of us knew its true name. That never mattered. All that mattered was that we could come here to be kids. To engage in activities that we all knew would get us into trouble, if we were ever caught, but which we did anyway for the thrill and excitement. Those times were all about us and the rest of the world didn’t matter. But tonight it was just me. There would be no more “us”. Not anymore.

Walking toward the overpass, I thought of how this terrible thing could have happened. I was angry. Angry at Johnny for driving so carelessly. He always drove that way, but most of the time it simply added to our fun and excitement. These kinds of things weren’t supposed to happen to kids that just wanted to have fun. We didn’t drink or do drugs and would certainly never operate a vehicle had we decided to experiment with those things. Yes, we were often careless, but there were certain things you just didn’t do. Even we knew that. Speeding in certain parts of the city was one of those things. So why had Johnny done it? Might have done it, I corrected myself. I didn’t know if he was speeding at the time of the accident, but I was still angry. Angry at Johnny for being the one driving. Angry at Jennifer for not insisting her brother drive carefully. Angry at both of them for leaving me. Angry at whoever had been driving that van that had run the right light. That was who should hold the majority of the blame. That was who had been driving under the influence and had taken my friends from me. But that person did not currently have a name or a face. Jen and John had both.

I stood on the overpass, looking out across the horizon, or where the horizon would be if anything were visible. Dark shapes of cars and trucks passed beneath me. The light from their head lamps mostly consumed by the rain as they drove along, barely able to illuminate more than just a few feet. No one could see me standing there. No one would see anything if I were to throw myself over the side. Perhaps in front of a south-bound semi. Those had always been the most fun, having to travel more than four miles from that point to reach our location, if they knew how to reach it at all. I thought on that option, a quick way to end this pain that was consuming me and perhaps allow me to be with my friends once more. I approached the edge and looked down, unable to see the road I knew was beneath me through the dark and the rain. It was getting colder now, but I hardly noticed. That slight discomfort was greatly overpowered by the anguish I felt internally. I put my hands on the cement barrier that acting as a railing for the overpass, feeling the rough, wet surface against my palms. It would be so easy. Just hoist myself up and swing my legs over the side as I had done so many times with fences in the past. Just wait for the right time and it would all be over in mere seconds.

I removed my hands and took one step backward. Coward. Don’t you want to see your friends again? Rage flooded through me anew. Angry with Johnny. Angry with Jennifer. Angry with the nameless killer who had taken them from me. Angry with myself for being a coward. I punched the cement barricade in frustration, feeling the immovable object jar my fist, arm and entire body with the impact. Fist still clenched, I raised it towards my face, looking down toward the fresh cuts that must surely be there, but which I could not see. It had stopped raining now, but I could feel moisture running down my arm, collecting at my elbow and dripping onto the asphalt at my feet. Perhaps the faint splashes I could hear through the silence of the night were from my blood dripping into a puddle. Perhaps it was just rain and my hand had not been cut. It did not matter. Nothing did. My friends were gone and they were never coming back.

I approached the edge once more, resolved strengthened with the thought of never being able to see my friends again. This was the only.

“I love you.” Jennifer’s voice called out from inside my head. “You’re always so strong.” Those familiars words that she had uttered to me many times played back as clearly as if she were speaking them to me now. She was right of course, she always was. The family members of my departed friends wore their feelings on their sleeves and this news was devastating them, even more so than it was me. I had to be strong.

The next morning I awoke from a troubled sleep. Had it been a dream? Perhaps at any time the phone would ring and Johnny or Jennifer would be on the other end, asking that familiar question. “What do you want to do tonight?” It was never a question of if or with whom. Only what. We did something every night. But no call came.

The funeral was a few days later and by then I had managed to push my rage and pain aside, attempting to replace it with strength, but feeling mostly numb. Perhaps I was still in denial. Or perhaps I just didn’t know how to handle the gravity of the situation. What kid did? Things like this weren’t supposed to happen to kids. At least not kids you knew. This was the kind of thing you heard about on the news, in a place far away that you’d never even heard of before. They didn’t happen to you.

Everyone was in their best dress, myself included, as I arrived at the church. It was a beautiful spring day. The rain from days before had now been dried by the brightly shining sun and the sounds of falling rain had been replaced with the faint chirping of birds off in the distance somewhere. Flowers were in bloom and everything was green. It was my favorite time of year and I particularly enjoyed days like this. So did Jennifer. We had enjoyed many things together since we started dating. That seemed like so long ago, but in truth it had been little over a year. I recalled how we would have picnics in the park, or on the hill that overlooked the high school. Everything green and in bloom as we would sit on the grass to eat our lunch or walk hand in hand and gaze at the wonders of mother nature that could only be experienced during those spring months.

Music was playing as I entered the church and greeted family members of my friends. Several bouquets and wreaths were on display by the pulpit and around the two coffins in front of the first row of pews. The lids were closed, the viewing had been the night before, allowing me one last chance to see my friends. I couldn’t remember who I had spoken to that night or if I had even spoken to anyone. I didn’t seem to remember much these days. Perhaps it was from a lack of sleep. Perhaps it was because in my mind they were still here and the three of us were thinking on what we wanted to do that night. Perhaps it was because I could not seem to find a way to escape from this waking dream.

When it was my turn to speak, I walked to the pulpit and looked out at everyone sitting in the pews. Most I knew, some I did not. Some I had only seen in pictures before. But all looked up at me. Many eyes were red and puffy and many handkerchiefs were held close or being used to dab moist eyes. I wanted to cry. It hurt so much and crying seemed like the only appropriate action. However, Jennifer’s words echoed in my mind, “You are always so strong” and I knew that wasn’t what the family needed. They needed to hear kind words about their departed loved ones. They needed their faith bolstered that they might be able to see them again one day. They needed someone to stay strong. I glanced down at the notes I had scribbled on some cards and began my talk.

“Friends and family of Jennifer and Johnny, I’d like to thank you all for being here today. I’m sure that both of them would be pleased by the wonderful sight in front of me. What can I say about these two dear friends, who have touched our lives so profoundly? If Johnny were here, I’m sure he’d find something to joke about. He always did. His light heartedness was as much a part of his personality as his blue eyes were of his face. How many of us were cheered up by one of his jokes or his infectious smile and laugh when we were having a bad day? Could anyone cheer you up as easily as he could?”

There were nods and smiles in the audience and I could tell all in attendance agreed with the sentiment. I continued on, shifting my focus to Jennifer.

“And Jennifer, always so selfless, considering the needs of others ahead of her own. When her little brother had the brain tumor that gave him such terrible headaches, she cared for him with that motherly quality if hers. Attending to his every need, making him soup, bringing him juice and just holding him when the pain made him want to cry.”

I looked down at Jen and John’s younger brother, who was sitting a few rows back. He had tears in his eyes, but smiled up at me as I continued.

“They were both very special and each had their own unique way of blessing the lives of those they came in contact with. In their short lives, they gained many friends and the admiration and respect of countless others.”

I continued on, recounting a few specific stories about each of them, highlighting their finer traits. It wasn’t hard to do, simply stating the truth and recounting memories was praise at the highest of levels.

“In conclusion, may I just say that I love them both very much. My life was blessed countless times by their tremendous spirits and their uplifting influences. They will be missed by family and friends alike and this world will not be the same without them.”

Many in the congregation cried, either from grief, gratitude or fond thoughts of the departed, or perhaps some mix of the three. I somehow managed to make it through my words without shedding a tear. I had found a way to stay strong.

Everyone drove to the cemetery after that; words were spoken, prayers were uttered and the coffins were lowered into the ground. Some left right after that, others stayed and talked for a time, but eventually everyone was gone and I found myself alone, standing in front of the two open graves.
To my left, the tombstone read:

Jennifer Miller
1978 – 1995
Always thought of others

And the one to my right read:

Johnny Miller
1976 – 1995
A friend to all

I read both of them a few times, agreeing that the information displayed could not be more accurate. The numbness that had so fully enveloped me earlier was starting to fade and I could feel the pain and anguish returning. The strength I had fought so hard to show earlier quickly leaving me. I looked around again, ensuring that I was alone and allowed the strength to be drained from me and the pain and anguish to fill the void that it had left.

I dropped to my knees, unable to carry the burden that was being placed on my soul. I cupped my hands around my face and closed my eyes. Then, I cried.

The most important writing

I am determined to put in the effort required to find out if I can be published one day. Hopefully that journey will not consists solely of agents and/or publishers slamming the door in my face, but I have decided to embark on this journey either way.

To that end, I have learned that an introduction paragraph (like the back cover of a book) is critical to grabbing agent, editor or publisher attention and have started to work on my "book hook". I likely won't actually submit a query letter to an agent until my book is done (or at least the first draft is done), but please give me your feedback on this introduction paragraph. Does it grab your attention and make you interested in the book?

In the small town of Huntsville Montana, a group of friends are learning about life, love and coming of age. Summer vacation was a time for fast cars, mischief, staying up late and going to parties. But when one of them crosses the wrong man, they find their lives turned upside down. Unable to turn to the police or their parents, they must rely on each other to prevent the death of their friend and the end of their childhoods.

Once again, thank you for your help and support.

Revised Prologue

I've made some changes to the prologue, not major surgery but hopefully changes that make it slow a bit more smoothly. Anyway, here's the update:

Prologue

It was just after 11PM and the night air was thick and muggy from the long hot day that had preceded it. Excitement surrounded the group of teens in an electric buzz that tickled their senses; adrenaline flowing though them as the light turned green and the roar of engines and squealing of tires rose to an almost deafening level. Both vehicles launched forward, leaving trails of rubber and traces of smoke in their wakes. Steve was driving the Mustang and Randy the Trans Am. Both fairly evenly matched, even with the various modifications that the two boys had made to their vehicles. As they tore down the road, neither seemed to have an edge over the other and they rapidly reached and then exceeded the posted speed limit of 45MPH. It was a little traveled road on the outside, the last light before leaving city limits and entering the county patrolled area that surrounded it. This was one of their favorite spots, rarely any cars out this way, especially this time of night.

Angela squealed with delight as her long brown hair flew backward in the breeze over the top of the passenger seat of Randy’s Trans Am. The sounds of the radio blasting Stabbing Westward drown out her scream, Randy hadn’t even noticed it. The top was down, adding to the buffeting of the wind that raced by the car’s occupants. She gripped the arm rest tightly and looked over at her older brother as he shifted gears once more and the unmistakable sound of climbing RPMs emanated from the black convertible’s engine. She turned to her right, looking at Steve who was staring straight ahead and had just finished a shift of his own. The dark green of the Mustang looked almost black in the pale light that surrounded the vehicles as they raced down the empty street.

It wasn’t so much a race as it was a game of chicken. If either boy missed the jump off the line, the race was over, but this time neither had. Now it was about how fast each dared to go before reaching the hill and the blind curve that followed it.

Greg gripped the handle of the Mustang so tightly that his knuckles turned white. His eyes were glued straight ahead, not daring to venture a glance to either side. The familiar feeling of the surge of adrenaline was flowing through him, making him feel alive. However, it made him very uneasy racing towards the famous hill at close to 100MPH. The hill would be fun, dropping down it at that speed was certain to send you stomach up into your throat. But at that speed, the blind turn would come quickly and it was impossible to tell what or who might be coming the other way. Perhaps it was the danger that heightened the sense of excitement, but that same danger made him very nervous.

“Enough!” Shouted Greg as he felt the ground fall away beneath them and tightened his stomach in a futile attempt to keep it where it was.

Steve dropped back a gear and Randy’s Trans Am pulled ahead and then banked hard to the right. Steve’s Mustang followed and tires squealed loudly as the two cars drifted into the turn. Randy saw the headlights first and his heart raced even faster, the pounding in his chest overpower the roar of the Ram Air 400 and the squeal of the tires. He aimed for the inside of the right lane and juiced the throttle to correct the understeer. Steve was right behind him, following suite and Randy glanced up in time to see the old man in the passing car glaring angrily, waving his fist in the air and shouting something. The two boys knew better than to stop and raced on, taking a few more turns before slowing down and pulling over.

Just another summer night in Huntsville Montana.