My first story totalled 2700 words, the last one was 2000, and I’m hoping this one pushes closer to 10,000. I’ve outlined where I want the story to go, and I’ll be posting it in chapters. Hopefully they’re of similar length and only take a few minutes to read. This should allow me to work on it in short spurts and have new chapters up pretty quickly.

Ultimately I think it would be fun to write an entire novel, but short stories that I can post on here for fun are a good way to start. To try and write an entire novel right now would be like Michaelangelo starting with the Sistine Chapel.

Nice Guy, No Hope is a High School love story. I’m reaching back into the past, and I think there will be a lot of guys that can relate. Hope you enjoy.

Nice Guy, No Hope

Chapter 1

    The air inside Mike Donovan’s 1996 Honda Civic was freezing. He had an extra jacket on over his sweatshirt, and he could see his breath when he exhaled. He rubbed his morning eye boogers away and yawned. Mike badly wanted to turn the car on and defrost his limbs, but he knew that was out of the question. It would have looked a little obvious if his car was running but not going anywhere, and he preferred to stay unnoticed. He sat there and rubbed his hands together hoping not to freeze, and waited.


    Mike didn’t tell anyone about this morning ritual, not even his best friends, because even he knew how it looked. The jokes and humiliation that his buddies would poor on him wasn’t worth the relief of getting a big secret of your chest. He munched on a cold pop tart and waited. It was 45 minutes until school started at McNeil High, a place Mike dreaded with a passion. It was his senior year, but it felt like he was on year ten of a life sentence. There was no reason to get to school early, and the best excuse he’d found to delay was walking out her front door.

    Slouching down in his seat so as to not be seen, Mike positioned himself so that he could see through part of his steering wheel and out the front windshield. He had considered bringing binoculars to get a better look, but he surmised he’d have to start making fun of himself then.
    Two doors down, walking from her front door to her Volkswagen Beetle, was Monica Callaway. For the next 15 seconds Mike Donovan was on top of the world. At school there would be a hundred guys watching her and wanting to talk to her, but every morning just after 7:30 am, it was Mike and Monica, and nobody else.
    For the last nine years the Callaway family had lived within shouting distance of Mike’s house. Ever since Mrs. Walsh’s 3rd grade class they had attended the same schools together. For his ninth birthday that year there was only one person Mike cared about inviting: Monica Callaway. Mike didn’t remember what presents he got that year, but it didn’t matter. The girl of his dreams, who was now a woman, had been inside his house, and willingly too.
    She hasn’t been back either! In 3rd grade she knew what a loser you were going to be. Being cool didn’t even matter yet and you STILL couldn’t hook it up. Way to go Mike.
    The whole thing was just depressing.

    Monica walked to her car with her cute over-the-shoulder bag and her purse cradled under her arm. Today her blond hair was up in a bun the way Mike liked it. She was still amazing with it down or in pig tails the way she did sometimes, but he thought you could see her face better this way. Mike didn’t understand how some men called themselves “butt guys” or “boob guys.” Mike was a sucker for a pretty face, and Monica Callaway had the prettiest on the planet.
    She opened the passenger side door and dropped her stuff on the seat. As she walked around the front to the other side she glanced down the street in Mike’s direction. Thoughts of jumping out and yelling “HI!” ran through his brain, but sinking farther down in his seat took less guts. Monica got in her car and left for school.
    As quickly as it had come it was gone. He sat up and brushed pop tart crumbs off his lap. Mike turned the key and the ignition fought the cold and started. He knew she’d be at school when he got there, but it wasn’t the same. She would be with her friends, and Mike would be with his. Those groups were as separate as they could be, like two different worlds inhabited by very different species. His species didn’t even speak the same language as the hot girls species. He’d get to see her and steal one-sided glances during photo and English, but they wouldn’t talk to each other, at least not on purpose.

    As Mike drove away he rationalized his morning routine. To some, including Monica Callaway if she knew, he probably looked like a stalker. Mike knew he’d never make the class favorites page in the yearbook, but he wasn’t crazy, and definitly not a stalker. Mike told himself he was just practicing for a future career in the CIA or FBI. It was like stakeout practice.
    I bet they don’t stake out hot chicks that they’ve been obsessing over for almost 10 years.
    Mike begrudgingly agreed with himself. He floored the gas pedal and felt better.