This is for the Homeschoolblogger group! I might put up more... depending on my buddies' opinions on it. Yay!
For those kind people who decide to read it and are not in the Homeschoolblogger group, I shall cut and paste the forum post:
"So it might be a little quick-paced... that's what happens when you're trying to write 2,400 words and watch a dog at the same time. But you wanted it... you got it."

Dun-dun-dun...

JACK IS NOW A DEPRESSING LOSER INSTEAD OF A LOSER LOSER. Like I promised.

Enjoy!

It was a dull breakfast. Jack listened uninterestedly as his mother gossiped about the news of the day, sketching something randomly on a piece of paper. It was a random drawing, one that didn't really make sense. The idea had come to him as he leafed absentmindedly through a book, and three sentences had ironically revealed themselves to him. What would happen if... a letter... about a weed?

That had been the night before, and he'd slept on those three phrases, brainstorming on what he could have done with them. What would happen if a letter arrived about a weed?

Well, he decided, it'd certainly be a boring letter if it was about a weed. So he had settled on drawing the weed instead of writing a letter about it.

With no picture or living specimen to base his sketch off of, the image was simply coming off of the top of his mind. It was being surprisingly easy for him to draw a weed out of nothing. As he wondered pointlessly why this was, he continued his picture sleepily.

“Mister Radin's daughter disappeared yesterday,” his mother continued as he added a branch and wondered why he was adding a branch to a weed. “That's the third disappearance in four months. Frightening, isn't it?”

“Oh yes,” agreed her friend through the window, where she was dropping off a pastry she had baked and decided to give to them. “I wonder where those three young ladies went.”

“It's particularly intriguing why they are all ladies of the same age,” continued Mother as she took the basket with the pastry and, with a nod of thanks, put it next to the stove where it would stay warm. “Is it a conspiracy or something?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw her friend shrug. “I wouldn't see who they were conspiring against. It's not like they're a particularly great loss, after all.”

How is that? demanded Jack as he added shading to the branch he had just scribbled onto his drawing. They're human beings, too.

As usual, she didn't read his mind, nor did she seem to care what he was thinking behind his worn sketchbook. She would never get over that money he had wasted eight years ago. It wasn't fair... he hadn't even been ten when he made that mistake...

He didn't really care anymore though. It was a set deal that he was still outcasted from this family. No doubt that treat would go to his little sister Hanna. She was nine and worth a lot more than he was. She always got the treats, so he'd settled on that fact a long time ago.

Before she's even done with this conversation, predicted Jack, she'll send me out to do another errand... or just to get out of the kitchen. With a weak shrug he added some leaves to the weed. Why was he adding leaves to a weed?

With a dismissive sigh, he put away the stick of coal he had been using to draw the picture and took his semi-masterpiece back to his bedroom. Within two minutes he'd be thrown out. Might as well put away his work so that he wouldn't be ten seconds late.

Walking resignedly into his little room in the back of the house, he opened his bedroom drawer and put his supplies inside it. After he had shut it, he sat and waited.

When she was looking for it, Mother found some trash for him to carry out within a minute.

Wait for it... wait for it...

“Jack!” Mother called suddenly in a shrill voice. Just Jack. No nickname. He didn't deserve a nickname. Maybe eight years ago...

“Yes?” was his hopefully inconspicuous reply.

“Patricia's son is out of town, and she'd like someone to do the lawn for her. She'll pay you. Are you up to it?”

Are you up to it? Jack repeated silently. Since when does she ask me that? “Yes, Mother.” That was the only valid reply, since the money would either go to Mother or one of Hanna's toys in the end anyways.

With an unnecessarily long yawn – mostly to kill time innocently – he stood up and took his coat from the hook on the wall by his door. He wondered how much money he'd be making for his mother in the long time that he'd be doing yard work. Maybe he could hide some in his shoe or something to buy some more art supplies. With a shrug of doubt he left the room.

He didn't even say goodbye as he stepped out into the could winter night air and stretched. Another disappearance, huh? He wondered if those girls were running away from their families like he wished he could do. He only stayed because he didn't have a cent in his pocket with which he could support himself should he leave this house and never return. He never kept enough of his earnings to stay alive until he could get a permanent job...

So where was Patricia's house? Not far, of course. Mother didn't like making friends with people who lived more than a few blocks down. It was too troublesome to exchange gifts that way.

As slowly his memory returned to him, he found the little red-shaded home where he remembered he had to take a Christmas gift last year. Oh yes... that was why he had forgotten its location. He didn't quite remember the location. All he remembered was dodging snowballs and avoiding slipping on frozen ice as he followed the vague directions to his destination.

Well... there wasn't much work to do here, really. Tug out a few weeds and chase away that nasty cat that looked about to use her rose bush as a litter box. Jack sighed and began his weak job, once more debating exactly how much he'd make off of this little feat.

Time passed quickly as he took the plastic sack from his pocket and dislodged all the weeds from the grass where they had stubbornly planted their roots. Now that he was out here all alone, he didn't bother to restrain the occasional swear word when a weed didn't want to leave its home. He was tired of hiding. But that was all he did. Hide. Was that how he'd die? Hiding inside his mother's house? Still unwanted there?

It was eight years ago, Jack thought angrily. A nice parent would forgive at this point. I've already apologized too many times.

So many times, in fact, that he had given up on these apologies on his fifteenth birthday, hoping that the feigned resignation would perhaps soften his mother's stern grudge against him. At least enough for him to be allowed seconds at dinnertime?

It was a lot of money, his conscience reminded him.

That's not the point, Jack snapped. I was eight. In any case, it's her fault for counting on an eight-year-old to buy three cows all on his own. I believe that I have grown just a bit... gotten smarter...

Tears of frustration slid down his face as he yanked out yet another weed. It wasn't fair. He wanted to leave. Maybe he could just wing it. Run away and do odd jobs until he got a permanent one. Then... maybe just live alone until he died unhappily of old age, all alone, like he expected his life would end.

Unless something turned his story around.

With a weak sigh he wiped away those tears and focused on his job. Not because of the mercy that might come, depending on how much he made off of it, but because if he wasn't even strong outside on his own, he wouldn't be strong at home with his mother. And Hanna. Hanna, who constantly threw in his face that she always received all of his money.

“I hope her first job is to be a butcher's apprentice,” he said under his breath, as he tried yet failed to contain his anger. “Then she'd get her dress messed up for the first time ever.”

Calm down, scolded his conscience. She's only nine.

I don't care! I've remained calm for long enough. Exhausted already – more due to the fuming than the actual labor – he stood up and let the cold night breeze cool him off a little bit. When you were eight and being punished for a mistake, usually you were sorry about it. But when you turned sixteen and you still haven't received a single hug from your mother and only parent since you made that mistake, repentance became scorn. Hatred, even. She was going too far.

Was that why she made him work so hard? To recover the three thousand gold that he had lost – his father's inheritance to the family – when he had been brainwashed into believing in magic beans?

Jack winced at the memory. Even though he despised his mother now, it was still more than a bit embarrassing to be constantly reminded by the intensely disliked little voice in his head that he had made such an idiotic mistake. Magic beans... huh. Even an eight-year-old – other than himself – had to be a little smarter than to believe in magic beans.

Maybe there was something wrong with his head. Maybe that was why that particular little mission had gone so wrong for him. Maybe, after failing to bring back three new cows to support the farm they'd used to have, a curse had been placed on him by the one above for having let his family down so terribly... so that he'd never do anything right ever again?

The worst part about this conclusion was that it was so untrue. He did things well, those often times that he was sent out to run errands. He did them right, but got nothing out of his own work. It was a waste of his own sweat. It was the reason he remained so thin. He worked hard but didn't deserve a second helping of the stew that his dear mother prepared so lovingly for her family... her family being her and Hanna.

Age doesn't matter, anyways, he added as he continued his task. At least, for me it didn't. When I was nine I was already taking care of the cows... before we had to sell them. Because of me.

Because of him. Everything that went bad in this household was always because of that simple mistake now. The loss of the big farmhouse and most of their animals – except for a few chickens, which they were barely holding onto, but he suspected would be sold before long. The terrible situation they were in economically. He'd thrown three thousand gold down the drain because of that evil old woman, and became the public enemy of the family. Too bad he still loved them, deep down.

More tears streamed down his face. It was hard to contain these. He tried to practice not crying when he wasn't around his family, so that when he was he could appear a bit stronger. It usually worked... that was one of the many things he was good at, but it still remained unknown, unappreciated – or maybe simply just ignored. Just like he was, until he was needed.

He let the cold wind clear his head. Listened to it barrel into him, and try – though almost fail – to blow away his frustration until he finished. This needed to be done quickly. But it seemed that, when he thought less, he was slower. Because when his head was finally empty, what had started off as five minutes of angry thoughts became what seemed like another day of a completely meaningless life.

Why do I need to be alive, anyways? Jack asked himself as he decided he was finished and threw the bag of weeds unceremoniously into the stream. It's not like I'm receiving any benefits from it. Why was I even born in the first place? Nobody benefited from that at all. Well... maybe Hanna did.

He didn't greet anyone on the way back into the cottage. He just dumped the measly amount of coins he had earned onto the table and went to his room. He didn't ask for dinner. He wouldn't get much of it anyways, and wouldn't be allowed seconds.

As he climbed into bed once more – feeling like the same day he'd gone through for eight years had simply been repeated – he wondered what Hanna would get from what he had made himself.

When she got a job, would she be generous enough to buy him a decent coat, like all of his... affiliates had? Because he didn't have friends, really. He didn't deserve them. They were just accomplices that he talked to on the streets sometimes as they crossed paths – Jack headed to another job, and whoever he was passing would be headed to dinner.

Just as he was dozing off, he remembered the sketch from earlier on. Suddenly he was curious about it, with no real answer as to why. Slowly, he opened his eyes and sat up. The clock in his head calculated that it must be about two in the morning. The candle on his bedside table was close to running out. If he wanted to get a good look at his work, he had mere minutes to do so.

Jack opened his drawer and retrieved the piece of paper. He gazed softly at it, then sleepily decided to add another branch before he went to sleep. It didn't look like a weed anymore anyway, more like a tree. Or a beanstalk, which brought back unpleasant memories. Leaning sleepily against the edge of the tabletop, he added a bit of shade to that second branch and gazed, almost guiltily, at his masterpiece. A beanstalk with two branches. So this was what he did when he did have spare time. Waste it.

Snorting impatiently, he stuffed the drawing back in the drawer – burying it all the way at the bottom, so that he wouldn't have to see it again, unless by accident. But he didn't have time to find old memories accidentally in his bedside drawer. It had been a long time since he'd looked here in the first place. There wasn't much to see. Just some random sketches; these sketches, however, made more sense logically than what he had drawn today. Seriously. A beanstalk... with tree branches. What idiocy.

I'd thought I had already gone insane, he thought as he blew out the candle and lay back down. I've just been proven wrong. It wasn't until today.