Oscar the boogieman awoke his version was bleary with sleep, he reached up with his fists, rubbed his eyes, making him look more like a grotesque child than a monster that struck fear into those children who were foolish enough not to use a nightlight as was rumored. Boogiemen just liked to do things at night rather than during the day like most folks.
The facts were that Boogiemen resembled a child in many ways. He loved to play games with the other boogiemen; hop scotch and guessing games were his favorite.
But Oscar’s favorite of favorite things to do was listening to stories of the other Boogiemen; even better than that though was telling his own stories. His dream was to become a published author. When the other Boogies heard this they told him that he was crazy. They said only human’s publish their stories, but Oscar didn’t care.
Oscar had been sneaking onto the computer that belonged to the father of the little boy whose bed Oscar slept under during the day. He found a magazine request on-line that wanted short fantasy stories, they were asking for something “new” and “fresh.” Oscar thought that a story about a friendly boogieman would be “new” he wasn’t too sure what they meant by “fresh” though. He decided to give it a try anyway.
He quickly started typing out his favorite boogie story; the one that the other Boogies agreed was the best.
It took Oscar more that forty minutes before he had the story just right. He sent the website an email with the story attached just the way the wanted they wanted it. Now all Oscar had to do was wait.
Unable to keep his secrete to himself, he ran out to tell his friends about it.
He found them all playing in the baseball park.
Once the other boogies heard what he had done, they did a very mean thing: They laughed at him. They said there was no way anybody would like such a story, that he had wasted his time.
Oscar left the baseball park, he felt very sad indeed. He went under his bed early and didn’t come out for the rest of the night.
When the sunset and the moon rose the next night, Oscar didn’t rush downstairs to check and see if the magazine liked his story. He couldn’t stop thinking about what his friends had said the night before.
Oscar trudged down the stairs with heavy feet. Sitting at the laptop, he opened his email and his heart gave a leap. He had a message, it was about his story.
With trembling fingers, Oscar scrolled down to read it.
It said they liked his story and they would like to see more. They were going to publish his story in their next magazine.
Oscar smiled to widely. He was going to be published. Oscar was an author.