[MyNovella]

Okay, so, this is a novella I've been working on - it's no where near finished yet, but I'd like to share what I've written so far, and you all can tell me what you think. Constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated. Thank you so much!

~~~~ NOTE: This is completely FICTIONAL.
Just because it happens to be written in the first person narrative, doesn't not make the narrator myself. IT IS FICTION. Thanks~

This Novella is called "Driffter"

So I’m living in this new place. I’ve got this shabby apartment in the shittiest neighbourhood in town. But I love it. I’m alone. There’s no one to bother me – except my downstairs neighbour who plays awful country music at all hours of the day and night. Still, I’m alone, and I love it.

I enjoy the freedom that comes with being alone. I like that I can be me, without restrictions. I like my privacy.

I’ve only been here a few weeks, and I’ve got no friends to speak of. I prefer it this way. There are no obligations with no friends, and no family, and no job. This has been my dream since I was nine – when my mother died, and my dad started drinking. He wasn’t much of a father after that.

No this is my life now. I sleep when I want, I eat when I want, I go out when I want, I watch TV when I want. I do whatever I want do, whenever I want to do it. And I love it.

I drive an old bug – you know, one of those ‘Punch-Buggies-No-Punch-Backs’ kind of deal – a Volkswagen Beetle. It belonged to my father, before he passed away last year. My uncle Henry told me it was a heart attack, but I knew it was a do-it-yourself kind of thing. My dad hadn’t been happy at all since my mom died. He probably only stuck around for my sake – like he was doing me a favour or something. I’m better off now. The best thing that man ever did for me was drop the toaster in his bath water; so long and good riddance.

So, you might be wondering how I got where I am now. It’s simple, really. I lived at my Dad’s place, after he’d gone, ‘til I had his shit in order – my uncle Henry helped me a bit, but only to get me away for good. Once it was all under control, I took my inheritance, and my father’s life insurance money, and got the hell out. And, so here I am, living low in this dump-hole, with over two hundred grand to my legal name.

This is the life, I’m telling you. No responsibilities; I’m free to do with my life whatever I want to. So, I’m sitting here, in my cheap-rent, one room apartment, sucking down a can of cola, with a rag in my hand. The news if on the TV, but I’m not really watching it – I only like the weather (that reporter chick is hot).

I took a long drag of my cigarette, and rested my head back against the back of the couch. The ceiling fan rotated slowly above me, aggravating the dust around the room. Small gusts of hot summer air were pushing in from my alley facing window. It was the only one in the place, and I didn’t open it for the view.

I drained the last of my cola, and flicked the butt of my cigarette into the ashe tray before heading to the kitchen for another can.

I went straight to the fridge.

No cola. Shit.

I glanced at the TV. Fifteen minute before the weather report. Damn. I’d never make it to the store and back in fifteen minutes.

I slammed the fridge, and slipped on my sandals.

I was going to miss the weather report.




My name is Peter Riffs. I’m nineteen and I’ve been living on my own for – well, for a long time, since I never counted my father as a caregiver. My friends called me “Driffter”. I’ve never stayed in one place too long. I’d bum sleepovers off my buddies, and stay for a couple of nights, ‘til the parents got annoyed with me being there, and threaten to call my father. I’d scram, and find a new place to crash for a while. And that’s how I got my name – and if you haven’t figured it out, someone thought it was clever to spell it with two Fs, so that way it was partly my last name, Riffs.

You might think I’d’ve had one friend whose parents would’ve felt bad enough for me, and let me stay with them a while, but I’m not really much of a people person. I can’t help it, I like my privacy, and privacy comes with being along. Trust me, I’ve been around enough people to know.

And so, for me, this life is ideal.

No one to tell when to watch TV, or what to watch. No one to tell me when to sleep, or when to wake up. No one to interrupt when I’m jerking off to a picture of Jessica Alba in a bathing suit.

I’m fucking free.



It was pretty later when I got home from the store – I stopped by the bar on my corner for a drink – and since I’d already missed Stephanie (the weather chick), so I went straight for my DVDs. There wasn’t anything on my shelf that peeked my interest, so I switched on the television, hoping they’d play back the weather report from earlier.

I don’t actually know what happened next, I guess I must have fallen asleep on the couch. I knew it was pretty late, the street lights were glaring in through my open window. I blinked a few times, trying to remember, but I wasn’t fully conscious, so I thought I was hearing things. Once I got a grip, I realized there actually was someone screaming down in the alleyway.

I decided to investigate.

I tip-toed out onto my balcony, and peered down into the darkness. I could barely see anything – the street lamps didn’t light up this far into the alley – but I managed to pick out a shadow moving away from the dumpsters. It sounded as if he was yelling.

Holy shit, I thought, did this guy just dump a body in my alley way? I thought I’d better check it out, and call somebody, but as I headed across the room to the phone, seven words emanated from my television set that made me stop.

“And now here’s Stephanie with the weather.”