Maple Street was just a regular old street in southern Illinois. It had houses, trees, flowers and those pesky rodents that always get into your garbage. As the street came to an end, there was a fork. If you took the right side, you would end up at an old basketball court. It was nothing special. The grass grew up through the cracks in the pavement. Every Friday, the kids who lived on the street would come and play pick-up games and such.     

If you took the left side, however, you will be greeted by a long winding road. As the tar turned to dirt and the barrage of trees ends, you will run into a rather large house. It was nothing special, there is an old flag that hangs outside. The paint on the shutters is chipped, and when it rains, the water drips off the eaves and soaks into the walls. The thing that was suspicious was a light in the very top part of the house was always on. This was Alex Duong, sitting in his study reading. He was an immigrant from Vietnam. Everyone thought he was crazy and senile but the truth was he was just lonely. You see, he had lost his wife and daughter in an attack that the U.S had on Vietnam in the war. They dropped many barrels of Napalm on the villages and rainforest they resided in. Each night he would sit in that room reading and drinking cheap whiskey but most of all grieving for what he had lost. All he needed was a little company.

The kids who played basketball would finish their night by going to his house and would throw rocks at his window. He would never do anything. He would sit in his study and listen to the kids laugh and also listen to the rocks hit his house. No one really knew why he would just sit and listen to pluck, pluck, plunk all night long. Was he scared? Was he comforted by the rocks hitting his house? No one really knows.

Tonight was Friday so he knew they were coming. He was expecting them at 7:30. Then came 7:35, 7:45, they were late. At 7:52 he was pouring himself another glass of whiskey and he was thinking to himself, “Should I show them my face tonight?” It was 7:55 when he heard the first rock hit his window. He didn’t show himself that night but little did he know that was his last night on planet earth. That night he died of depression and alcohol poisoning. So, the moral of this story is, when you have a chance to give a compliment or kind gesture, always do it. It could make someone’s day or even save somebody's life.

- By Zander Clark