The Diary.

The stairs creaked in protestation of my stormy steps. The attic door swung open with a bang, knocking loose a cloud of dust into the candle-lit air. I flung myself down onto the nearest crate without bothering to check for spiders.
After staring moodily at the opposite wall for several minutes, I quit trying to reason with my brain, which was composed of too many complaining voices to make sense of. Writing sometimes helps me to calm down, so I fumbled for some paper. Surely there was something up here I could write on. I spotted a horrendously old notebook in a corner and seized it. Swiping my ever-present pencil out from behind my ear, I scribbled furiously.
My name is Elmer Creek, and in case you can't tell by my handwriting, Im angry.
Swiftly I poured out the day's events onto the yellowing page. I had just received word from my parents that they had apprenticed me to the local blacksmith.
All I want to do is read. It's not fair. Nobody understands me.
I turned the page—and froze in surprise. Someone had already written in this notebook. What was more, the handwriting was rather hard and dark, as though written in a high temper.
August 9: I cannot believe this is happening. My parents are making me work outside and “learn to be a farmer.” My back hurts already and all I want to do is sleep. It's not fair.
John Creek
My heart did a funny leap. That was my father, and he sounded like—me.  
August 12: Refused to work today. Had argument but won out. Whew. Time for some reading.
August 13: I think I'm making some progress. My parents seem sad but they didn't make me work outside today. Yesterday mother told me to cut hay but I got distracted by a book as usual.
September 1: Yes! I think the whole farmer idea has fallen through at last. I've been up here reading almost constantly, and no one is nagging at me to feed the cows.  
The writing stopped and I thought that the diary had ended, but in the back I espied a final entry, written in a newer, steadier hand.
I don't know how this all happened. Somehow I've found out I don't have. . . Anything.
It ended there. I checked both sides of the back page, looking for more, but there was nothing. I sat in a stunned silence.
I found I don't have anything.
A lot could be derived from that sentence but i was beginning to have an idea of what my father meant. Young, promising, and unable to support himself, simply because he had failed to obey his parents and learn a trade.
I swallowed hard and turned back to my own writing. A sentence jumped out at me.
All I want to do is read.
I was headed the same way as my father. Is that why we're so poor? Is that why we live in the attic above the grocers?
I could hear my mother calling up the stairs for me. For the first time it struck me how tired she sounded—how sad.
My parents seem sad. . .
Bother diaries! But did I want my children growing up in attics while I tried to eke a living from being a grocers assistant?
Resolutely I turned on my heel and matched out the door. It was time to be a blacksmith.


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