This is the Stephen King novel I tried to write when I was six.

by

While sorting through old boxes in Reed City, buried beneath my Pinewood Derby trophies and novelty spoon collection, I found the first story I’d ever written.

I had no memory of writing this, so I sat back and let six-year old me spin this thrilling yarn:

“There we were all standing looking for selter all 20 of us and then we saw a creepey old house it looked good for selter. Suddenly we heard a scream it was fred he was runing from a huge master-”

Oh no! Me and 19 others (kids? people? Shetland Ponies?) were just standing around looking for “selter” when we saw a creepy old house and thought, “we gonna selter all up in there,” and then fucking Fred had to go and get attacked by a huge “master.”

Fucking Fred.

What will happen to Fred? Will we ever find selter? Let’s turn to page 45 to find out-

“-it killed him we ran as fast as we could but 10 other kids were goton by a big blob and they were kiled to soon me and my best friend Joe were alive Joe sliped falling strate down into a hole he was dead. I ran home as fast as I coeud.” THE END?

Fred’s dead, baby. And ten other kids? Blobbed. But Joe was still alive! Thank God for Joe my best friend. And… he dead. No time to mourn you Joe! Gotta run home as fast as I coeud.

But is this really over? What happened to the other 7 kids? Will they ever find selter?

I also drew a handy illustration of the situation to paint a vivid picture in my reader’s mind of the terror’s at hand-

The tree’s been shot.

Also bleeding.

Giant crab monster?

The smoke has fucking teeth.

My eye-balls are popping out with terror.

My four strands of hair are on end.

The garage door looks grumpy-as-fuck

Dracula is here and he has a flag.

That ghost is really enjoying his one-line.

There’s a… baseball glove in the attic?

Green slime monster shyly hiding in the back.

Just a bunch of mouths crawling on the roof.

Front door looks like a mentally-challanged Thomas the Tank Engine character.

If you know any six-year olds with a affinity for cursive and a loose phonetical grasp on spelling, let me know. I would love to turn this into a trilogy and sell the rights to Miramax.

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