I can't be sure when I even wrote this, it was years ago now, but here's a fragment of what I apparently wrote??
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 I raced down the street on my bicycle, headed towards Jefferson park to meet my friend Quentin. Our parents were family friends, so we often play together in the park, much like other nine year olds.

I rounded the corner, now arrived at the park. Quentin was waiting for me, standing by the bicycle stand. It felt like he was staring at me, but I didn't mind.

I was standing up on the bicycle, as usual, with my arms locked. I kicked my feet back sharply, immediately stopping their spinning cycle and setting off the brakes on the bicycle. The sky was clear today, but it was starting to get warm and I could almost smell the water in the air. It was sure to rain later on.

Quentin and I locked up our bicycles and began the walk across the park to play. He was telling me about some invention he had come up with, the 'Ringolator'. He said it was an enormous cannon that would shoot big, colored stones into a slow orbit, giving Earth rings like Saturn. I chuckled at the idea. It sounded amazing to me, but it also seemed a bit difficult.

Quentin seemed to think something was off. He was looking around, as if trying to place it. I began to look too, and noticed something leaning on the old oak tree to the left of the playground. "Quentin," I said in a quiet, calm voice, gaining his attention. I was pointing at the tree, trying to show him.

Shock took over his face as he looked. There was a man, wearing a grey suit, leaning, in a slumped manner, against the oak tree. He wasn't moving. There was blood all around him; a waterfall of the red liquid flowed from his mouth, slowly, almost dried up now. His mouth hung open in an almost unnatural fashion, and flies sat on the pale skin of his forehead.

"He's dead," I said, stating the obvious. A coping mechanism. Quentin took two small steps backwards, away from the body. He seemed timid, almost afraid, as if the dead man could jump up and attack.

As I felt Quentin take those two steps I took two steps forwards, towards the body, closer. "His eyes are open," I said, observing the body. "Wegottagohome," I could hear Quentin say behind me, but it was as if I were staring into space, his voice simply an unnoticed whisper. "I thought you closed your eyes when you died," I moved my foot, going for another step.

"Margowegottagohomeandtell," again came Quentin's whisper.

I finished my step. I could reach out and touch the body now. "What do you think happened to him?" I asked Quentin. "Maybe it was drugs or something."

"Margowegottagorightnow!" I heard Quentin this time. He must have yelled. "Okay, yeah," I answere and we both took off to our bikes. My stomach was churning a bit, but Quentin looked as if he would throw up. I rode in front of him, pedaling as fast as I could, trying to get home as quickly as possible. There was blood on my shoes, but I didn't care.

We told Quentin's parents and returned to our separate houses. I wasn't sure what Quentin was up to, but I needed to investigate, to figure out the mystery.

I left the house with a notepad and pen, returning to the park. The police were there, and kept me from getting as close as I previously had, but I could see the scene and I wrote as much as I could about what it looked like.

I spent the remainder of the afternoon at the man's apartment. It turned out his name was Robert Joyner. The police didn't know much, but they answered all of my questions. I learned from his neighbor that he was getting divorced, that he was depressed.

I returned home around nine o'clock. Quentin had discovered the body with me, and I decided that he should know what I had found out, so I snuck out of the house and went to his window. Quentin turned in his bed and noticed me standing there. He came to the widow and opened it, but the screen still separated us.

"I did an investigation," I told him in a serious tone. "Mrs. Feldman from over on Jefferson Court said his name was Robert Joyner. She told me he lived on Jefferson Road in one of those condos on top of the grocery store, so I went over there and there were a bunch of policemen, and one of them asked if I worked at the school paper, and I said our school didn't have a school paper, and he said as long as I wasn't a journalist he would answer my questions. He said Robert Joyner was thirty-six years old. A lawyer. They wouldn't let me in the apartment, but a lady named Juanita Alvarez lives next door to him, and I got into her apartment by asking if I could borrow a cup of sugar, and then she said Robert Joyner had killed himself with a gun. And then I asked why, and then she told me that he was getting a divorce and was sad about it." I stopped talking and Quentin just stared. "Lots of people get divorces and don't kill themselves," he said.

"I know," I returned. The excitement was spilling out of my voice. "That's what I told Juanita Alvarez. And then she said..." I flipped my notebook page," She said that My. Joyner was troubled. And then I asked what that meant, and then she told me that we should just pray for him and that I needed to take the sugar to my mom, and I said forget about the sugar and left." I paused for a while, and Quentin just stared. "I think I maybe know why," I said. "Why," Quentin asked me. "Maybe all the strings inside him broke," I answered.

Quentin was silent, and in his silence he unlocked the screen from the window, removing it and putting it on the floor. Before he spoke I raised my face to look at him and whispered, "Shut the window," and he did.

I'm not sure what it was that I was afraid of, but it seemed there was something in his room, something malicious, but I didn't want to leave him alone with that force, so I stayed, staring at him through the window.