Reflections on my first ever published story at the age of 16

This weekend, I went through some old files and found my FIRST EVER published story! It was early 1993 and I was a junior in high school when I submitted this whopping 211-word tale to the local junior college (Mount San Antonio College) Writer's Day Festival. I garnered third place in the category of children's fiction for this little gem of teenage fancy.

The event really was quite inspirational, and the next year I entered again with a new story, which went on to win FIRST PLACE at the Festival.

Oh, to change the course of life now… I gave up writing after that. I loved it, but I also loved so many other interests and jumped from one passion to another. I went to college and got a job, and all other manner of responsibilities reared their heads so that I did not write again until one year ago (yes, this is my one-year-fiction- writing-as-an-adult-anniversary - see how this all ties in?) - February, 2011.

Anyway, for your enjoyment, I present the writing of a sixteen year old hopeful author!

Anybody out there want first reprint rights of my first ever story? ;)

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Priority

          One fine, Sunday morning, little Johnny Miller was just finishing milking the family’s cow, Florence, when he glanced at the horizon, and lo and behold, spied not one, nor two nor three, but an even four llamas floating across the skies. Being a rare sight to see llamas flying side-by-side in unison, little Johnny ran into the house for his camera, because his uncle Floyd collected photographs of such phenomena. Unfortunately, the camera was nowhere to be found and, besides, his uncle already had several such photos, his pa later remarked. So little Johnny returned outside and was content to just sit back and watch the four llamas glide away, out of sight.

          Feeling pretty good, he went down to the local fishin’ hole and threw in a line. Oblivious to the fact that he had left the pail of Florence’s milk spoiling in the sun, he lay against a tree trunk happily drowsing. That afternoon he went home with two bluegill and a bass, and received a sound scolding, followed by a whuppin’ for ruining a perfectly good bucket of milk.

          Thus from that day forth, he never interrupted his work again to watch llamas fly across the sky. Unless of course, they were being ridden by Albanian pot-bellied pigs.

The End