Mr. Opalardiqu

May I present Little One’s second piece of fiction to be posted here at the Hopper:


“I’m ready, so throw the ball!” Juan shouted to Jake who was pitcher. “Okay, okay, I’m doing it, Juan!” Jake cried as he swung the ball directly at Juan. Juan batted it and – everybody heard only one thing: shattering glass.

Juan backed away slowly but – oh no! – from inside the house somebody cursed and said, “Hey you!” Juan froze. An old man came out on a cane. “Was it you who did that?” The old man pointed a bony finger at Juan and then the window. “Y-y-yesss,” Juan told him ever so quietly. “I’m going to walk you home,” the old man said to him. “All the rest of you go home. NOW!” As everybody left, the old man said, “Where are your parents? Are they home? I need to have a chat with them!” He grinned. “My name is Harold Opalardiqu. You could call me Harold.” “Um, well, my mom is home, I guess. And, uh, I live on – ” “I know where you live!” the old man told him grimly. “Creepy,” said Juan under his breath.

When the two boys got to Juan’s house his mom came out. “Hey Juan – why is Mr. Opalard here?” she asked. “Mr. Harold Opalardiqu you mean, right? Anyway, your son has done something – ” “What!” Juan’s mom interrupted. “Mom!” Juan groaned. “As I was saying, your son has batted a baseball through my window,” Harold told Juan’s mom. “What?! Juan?” Mom screamed at Juan. “But it was an accident!” Juan insisted. “Please tell me how you will punish him later!” Harold told her. “No. I have made my decision!” Mom said quickly. “Wow she’s quick!” Harold told Juan. “I’m going to ground him for a month and – how much does your window cost?” Mom asked. “Hmmmm, oh yeah, $500!” Harold told her with a chuckle. “That’s how much is coming out of your bank account. We’ll give you the money later. I hope you have enough money!” Mom told Juan absently. “Mom, Harold, I learned something today: NEVER play baseball by a house! I’m sorry Harold,” Juan said. “Apology accepted!” Harold told Juan.


My grade: A+ + + + !!!


Of course, I admit my bias.

Still, not bad for an eight-year-old, right? Punctuation still needs a little work, as her teacher told her, much to my daughter’s disdain. “Punctuation!” she spat. “Punctuation you worry about on the second draft,” I told her. “This is the first draft – and it’s perfect!”

And is it me, or do you want to know much, much more about the mysterious, erratic, and somewhat sadistic Mr. Harold Opalardiqu?