Hearts In Atlantis

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Book: Hearts In Atlantis Read Online Free PDF
Author: Stephen King
that’s not the word I would have chosen.” Ted clasped his bony arms around his even bonier knees and gazed across the lawn at Broad Street. It was growing dark now; Bobby’s favorite part of the evening had arrived. The cars that passed had their parking lights on, and from somewhere on Asher Avenue Mrs. Sigsby was calling for her twins to come in and get their supper. At this time of day—and at dawn, as he stood in the bathroom, urinating into the bowl with sunshine falling through the little window and into his half-open eyes—Bobby felt like a dream in someone else’s head.
    â€œWhere did you live before you came here, Mr. . . . Ted?”
    â€œA place that wasn’t as nice,” he said. “Nowhere near as nice. How long have you lived here, Bobby?”
    â€œLong as I can remember. Since my dad died, when I was three.”
    â€œAnd you know everyone on the street? On this block of the street, anyway?”
    â€œPretty much, yeah.”
    â€œYou’d know strangers. Sojourners. Faces of those unknown.”
    Bobby smiled and nodded. “Uh-huh, I think so.”
    He waited to see where this would lead next—it was interesting—but apparently this was as far as it went. Ted stood up, slowly and carefully. Bobby could hear little bones creak in his back when he put his hands around there and stretched, grimacing.
    â€œCome on,” he said. “It’s getting chilly. I’ll go in with you. Your key or mine?”
    Bobby smiled. “You better start breaking in your own, don’t you think?”
    Ted—it was getting easier to think of him as Ted—pulled a keyring from his pocket. The only keys on it were the one which opened the big front door and the one to his room. Both were shiny and new, the color of bandit gold. Bobby’s own two keys were scratched and dull. How old was Ted? he wondered again. Sixty, at least. A sixty-year-old man with only two keys in his pocket. That was weird.
    Ted opened the front door and they went into the big dark foyer with its umbrella stand and its old painting of Lewis and Clark looking out across the American West. Bobby went to the door of the Garfield apartment and Ted went to the stairs. He paused there for a moment with his hand on the bannister. “The Simak book is a great story,” he said. “Not such great writing, though. Not bad, I don’t mean to say that, but take it from me, there is better.”
    Bobby waited.
    â€œThere are also books full of great writing that don’t have very good stories. Read sometimes for the story, Bobby. Don’t be like the book-snobs who won’t do that. Read sometimes for the words—the language. Don’t be like the play-it-safers that won’t do that . But when you find a book that has both a good story and good words, treasure that book.”
    â€œAre there many of those, do you think?” Bobby asked.
    â€œMore than the book-snobs and play-it-safers think. Many more. Perhaps I’ll give you one. A belated birthday present.”
    â€œYou don’t have to do that.”
    â€œNo, but perhaps I will. And do have a happy birthday.”
    â€œThanks. It’s been a great one.” Then Bobby went into the apartment, heated up the stew (remembering to turn off the gas-ring after the stew started to bubble, also remembering to put the pan in the sink to soak), and ate supper by himself, reading Ring Around the Sun with the TV on for company. He hardly heard Chet Huntley and David Brinkley gabbling the evening news. Ted was right about the book; it was a corker. The words seemed okay to him, too, although he supposed he didn’t have a lot of experience just yet.
    I’d like to write a story like this , he thought as he finally closed the book and flopped down on the couch to watch Sugarfoot. I wonder if I ever could .
    Maybe. Maybe so. Someone had to write stories, after all, just like someone had
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