Uh, kind of a random idea I had that I thought might make a good story. Hope you like it. Reviews are appreciated, as always.
That September day in 1946 was a turning point in the lives of two boys who met by chance, never knowing that they would meet again nearly thirty years later.
Mike Stoker, only five years old at the time, had always been very quiet, and somewhat shy. When he would go to the park, he never played with the other children on the playground, choosing instead to go off by himself, sitting on the swingset, or under the large oak tree.
On this particular day, he was walking across the playground with a book in his hands, planning on spending his afternoon sitting under the oak tree reading.
His plans were interrupted when a group of bigger boys approached him. He recognized them as three of the bullies from his school. First-graders, he remembered.
"What's little Mikey got here?" One of the boys taunted, snatching the book away from the kindergartner.
"'Ducky's Adventure'," the bully read the title. He waved it above Mike's head. Mike jumped to try to reach it, but the bigger boy held it higher. "What a stupid baby book!"
"C'mon, Mikey," the boy teased. "Speak up for yourself, ya little wimp!"
The other two boys ganged up on Mike, hitting and shoving him, until at last he fell to the ground, scraping his elbow as he did so. He whimpered, and tried to stand, but was shoved to the ground once again, the three bullies laughing at the smaller boy's inability to defend himself.
"Leave him alone." Mike looked up and saw that a boy with dark, curly hair running towards them. He was bigger than the bullies, and though thin, looked like he was strong enough to take all three of them.
The first-graders all looked up at the bigger boy. "What's it to ya?" the leader sneered. The next thing he knew, he was being grabbed by the collar and nearly pulled off his feet. He found himself only inches away from the intruder's face. The older boy looked mad.
"I said leave him alone!" the boy growled. He released the bully, who ran away quickly, his buddies only inches behind.
The mysterious helper held out a hand to help Mike up, which the younger boy took. Mike stood slowly and brushed himself off.
The older boy took Mike's arm, examining the scraped elbow. "That's a pretty bad scrape you got there." He observed. "C'mon, let's go wash this off at the water fountain."
Mike dutifully followed the boy to the water fountain, where they washed off the scrape. "My name's Henry." The older boy said. "What's yours?"
"Michael."
"Well, here you go, Michael." Henry pulled a Band-Aid out of his pocket and pressed it on the scrape, earning him a smile from the quiet little boy. "Thanks." Mike said.
"No problem." Henry replied. "By the way, my full name's Henry Stanley. I'm seven years old."
"Michael Stoker. I'm five."
"Do you have any friends, Michael?" Henry asked. Mike shook his head.
"Well, why not?" Henry pressed. Mike frowned. "Nobody ever talks to me." He explained. "And I don't talk to them 'cause I don't like to talk."
"Do you want a friend?" Henry asked him. Mike nodded. "Then that settles it." Henry replied. "I'll be your friend."
Mike smiled. "I'd like that."
"C'mon, let's go to my house." Henry started off down the sidewalk, his new friend trailing behind him.
After a few minutes they got to a residential area. "That's my house there." Henry pointed to a house with the address, 51, painted on the mailbox.
The two boys went inside the house. Henry led Mike into the kitchen. Mrs. Stanley was there, fixing dinner. "Hi, Mom," Henry said. "This is my new friend, Michael."
"It's nice to meet you." Mrs. Stanley told the newcomer politely.
Mike smiled. "Thank you."
"C'mon," Henry said excitedly. "Let's go to my room. I'll show you my toy firetrucks."
The two boys headed upstairs. Henry pushed open the door to his room, and they walked in, Mike's eyes widening as he counted at least eight toy firetrucks of various shapes and designs all around the room.
"Wow," he whispered. He turned to his new friend. "Why so many?"
"I love firefighting stuff." Henry answered, his eyes shining. "I'm gonna be a fireman someday." He added proudly.
Mike wandered around the room, transfixed, picking up each toy firetruck in turn. He seemed especially enamored with one—a big, boxy one, with painted on gauges and meters. "This one's my favorite." He announced.
"That one's my favorite, too." Henry told him. "It makes real siren sounds, see?" he reached out and pressed a button on the side. Mike's eyes widened in fascination as the lights on top began flashing and siren sounds came out of a small grill on the front.
Just then, Mrs. Stanley came into the room. "I have great news, Henry." She told her son. "Your father got that transfer he's been wanting. We're moving to San Francisco! We leave tomorrow morning."
Henry looked stunned. "But, Mom, I like L.A." he insisted. "And besides, I just met Michael today, and he doesn't have any friends except for me."
"Well, don't worry," Mrs. Stanley said as she left the room. "You can always write to him." Then she was gone, heading back downstairs and leaving the two boys in stunned silence.
At last Henry looked at the toy firetruck in his hands—his favorite toy, then he placed it in Mike's arms. "Here," he said. "Keep this, to remember me by."
Mike stared silently at his new possession for a few moments.
"You know what, Henry?" He said at last.
"What?"
"I'm gonna be a fireman, too, someday."