To celebrate National Novel Writing Month, my creative writing teacher is making us write a 30,000-word novel. That constitutes about a thousand words a day. This is my first novel, so I decide maybe it’d be best to go for a children’s novel. I’m not saying those are easy to write; I just have some experience with storytelling with children.

To cram some words in, I am writing on the bus. It is pretty nice; people are minding their business, and I’m just a dude working on his laptop… until some kid is like, “I’m going to wreck his productivity!” and starts asking me a lot of questions. I don’t necessarily mind, because this is the age range I’m writing for. It’s a pretty open bus, so his mom has sight of both me and him. We bounce ideas back and forth until his mother comes over.

Mom: “Hey, [Kid], what’re you doing?”

Kid: “I’m helping him write!”

Mom: “What’re you writing?”

Me: “I’m writing a children’s novel. Your kid has been a lot of help.”

Mom: “Well, if he’s helped so much, shouldn’t he be able to get a copy for free?”

I then try to explain to her about the editing process, which can take anywhere from a few days to an entire month, and the publishing process, which would take about half a month to a full month. I also tell her that I’m not even done with it yet. I am barely halfway through the seventh chapter. The kid’s opinions and suggestions might not even come through in the published version.

She then goes OFF about how her son should be compensated for his ideas and how he should at least have a free copy when it is out.

Me: “Oh, I’m planning on selling this on Amazon. I’m publishing under [My Pen Name].”

She continued to say her son should get a free copy. I just got off the bus.

I overhear this in a grocery store.

Little Girl: “I’m hungry.”

Mom: “I know, honey. We will eat when we get home.”

Little Girl: “When I’m hungry, I get cranky pants. YOU DON’T WANT TO SEE MY CRANKY PANTS!”

I have been noticing a lot of minor and odd occurrences in the car park that my garden backs up to. It’s little things, like my valve cap covers going missing, toys left in the road, my bin disappearing, drinks and rubbish left all over and on the cars, etc.

It’s annoying but nothing major, so I chalk it up to the new family that just moved in and hope it will sort itself out.

Eventually, I set up a couple of cameras and unsurprisingly see the new family’s kids messing with cars, throwing rubbish around, etc.

One day, I find a football in my garden. I check the cameras and see that the kids have been kicking the ball against my fence and actually other people’s cars! The ball goes over my fence, and then they actually try to come into my garden — thankfully it’s locked — and give up. I’m pretty annoyed, so a few days later when their father arrives at my door, I am ready for him.

Father: “I’m very sorry, but my kids kicked their ball into your garden. Could I have it back?”

Me: “No.”

Father: “Please, I am asking as they did it only by accident. It was their present.”

Me: “No. You see, I put up cameras. And what do I see? Your children damaging cars, throwing rubbish around, and then trying to get into my garden. You can have your ball back when you promise to actually supervise your children and they apologise.”

He disappeared without saying a word.

On reflection, it occurred to me that I had no right to keep the ball, and I felt pretty bad. I figured I would throw it back over the fence after a day or two.

It was a surprise to see the police at my door the next day. I let them in and confirmed that I would return the ball, but I also showed them the camera footage. They took particular interest in the cars the kids were interfering with and they visited each of the houses.

It turned out that no one wanted to take the issue further, but they did speak with the father to inform him of what could have happened, and how he would be responsible for any damage his children caused.

In the end, he stopped letting the kids play unsupervised in the car park. Hopefully, he didn’t just set them loose on another neighbourhood.

I work in the games department at an amusement park. My “area” is the children’s area. I am working the basketball game and I am doing callouts to various guests. I decide to call out to a boy that looks about ten or eleven. The boy has, who I assume to be, an older sister with him.

Me: “You there, with the red and black NBA shirt. You look like you would like to give my game here a shot!”

The boy looks at me for a moment before shrugging and walking over.

Boy: “Can I get a free shot?”

This is a common question.

Me: “No, but if you have two dollars on your game card, you can get one ball. If you have five, three balls you can shoot. Ten bucks will get you seven.”

The boy looks down at his game card while one of my coworkers enters the game to help me run it while we wait for our third to come back from storage with our supervisor.

Boy: “There’s no way I can get a free ball?”

Me: “Sorry, but no.”

Boy: “B****.”

After this, the boy turns and walks away. My coworker walks over and asks what’s wrong as she was able to hear what I was saying, but not what the boy was saying.

Coworker: “You good?”

Me: “I just got called a b**** for the third time today.”

Coworker: “That has to be a record.”

Later, when my supervisor is walking with me back to the office, she asks me about what happened earlier. I guess my coworker told her. We see the boy and I point him out to her. He proceeds to run to his group, which consists of two more females besides the one I originally saw him with.

Supervisor: “If you ever see that kid again and I’m working, call me. That same kid called [Coworker] and [Area Manager] b****es, as well.”

My little brother is about nine or so and we go with our mom to a well-known kids’ arcade. We’re about to enter when my brother suddenly bursts into tears.

Me: “What’s the matter?”

My brother shakes his head and cries harder.

Mom: “What’d you do to him?”

Me: “Nothing! He just burst out crying for no reason!”

Finally, he composes himself enough to blubber out.

Brother: “I just realized that we’re all gonna die someday! It’s so sad!”

He cried and cried.

We had to haul him in the arcade sobbing his little heart out. Twenty years later, he still is upset about the concept of death. I remember the first time I cried about my mortality — I was six — but not when I was going to the arcade!