I don't know what happened to my mom. I know she was around until I was a year old or so and that one day she wasn't. She took everything with her, and did a pretty thorough job. There wasn't a trace of her in the house but the pictures my mother and father took when they were a couple, a few when my mom was pregnant, and one where I'm born. I'm sure there were others of me, but I have a suspicion Mom took those for herself.

  When I was five or so, I found a box of my mother's things - Roald Dahl and George Orwell paperbacks, some paintings, and, most interesting(And to become useful) of all: A Silver-Reed 720 Typewriter. I took Everything to my room, not on the ground floor but not the top one either(Dad later told me he bought the house with more children on his mind) along with the paintings and paperbacks. Dad helped me replaced the ribbon with another one mom had left in a plastic bag.

  I also found Mom's old manuscripts she typed on that Writer(Dad did mention once she wanted to be a Writer). She wrote Short Stories, Usually. The type that would go off to the penny-a-word mags in that unmistakable rustic font (They would've never got a chance to, as they were all the same--unedited and never finished). I still look at them sometimes. Damn, I think, She really was an ass writer.

  I had a big room and a small desk; We lived in California--I still do--In Santa Monica. I had a great view of the Sea from my Window, and even a balcony off it. I remember writing stories on it in cloudy days in particular.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

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  I got my first story published in 1999. As per standard in the Year of the Earth Rabbit, it was really only contributer's copies, but of course that didn't matter to me. I still remember the name of the story(As does everyone I think).

  While A Sunny day in Key West isn't what I'm best known for, I think it means the most to me, the first time I got that feeling, Woah. Somebody wants my work?

  I still have one of those copies--Story Republic was the name of that Magazine. (By now, I'm afraid to report It's surely gone to the Big Magazine Holder in the sky)

  Like all my stories it was written out on Mom's Typewriter, which I had only had to fix once up to that point(A key got misaligned).

  (As of now, I've had to fix it 3 times. I'm using it to write this out right now, actually. Let's hope it doesn't break anytime soon.)

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  The other day something happened to me that I've wanted to happen to me for a good while. I was walking through my neighborhood--It hasn't changed much since I was a kid--and came across Mrs. Fletcher's Borrow-A-Book library with one of my books on it. My first one actually. Red Summer, it read, by Daniel Spencer. It wasn't a first edition, as The New York Times Bestelling Author was marked over in the sleek red-over-white-font I've grown accustomed to.

  I must thank Mrs. Fletcher sometime.

  - Daniel Spencer