In going through an old notebook, I stumbled upon this beginning of a story:
Max the Smallest Truck
Max was the smallest truck n the whole yard. Every morning the bit trucks would head out to pick up loads of dirt and gravel and rocks, and Max would wait... and wait...and wait. Every evening the big trucks would come back, dirty and tired, and talking about all the things they had seen that day, and Max would still be waiting. Every night he fell asleep sad and lonely and wondering if tomorrow would be the day. But there was never a load for a little truck.
I have no idea where I was going with this, or if I even had any idea beyond the introduction of Max. Poor Max, doomed to be forever waiting and sad.
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