Possible Revised Opening for the Night Flyer

In a multitude of ways Simon Grace was like any other, a young strapping man with a penchant for simple acts of rebellion.  He tried his best to be the ideal grandson he thought his grandmother wanted, but something in him screamed to disobey.  If it wasn’t for that wonderful affection he received daily from her, he might have descended into a different type of young adulthood, but as it were his undying love, and respect for her ideals kept him in check, and molded his disposition.  He still had the urge to do his own thing, to walk free of the pack, but it wasn’t in any damaging way.  He kept to himself, his quest for independence was to allow him the chance to love his isolation, to understand himself, and the world around him.  Simon Grace was a strange boy in this regard, while others ached for the companionship of others, and finding comradery in friends, Simon demanded from his rebellion the right to be on his own, and to ponder his thoughts, with himself, on his own.  He was not a perfect grandson, he would often tell lies to his sweet trusting guardian, who would it seemed grant him a humorous knowing distance.  These lies he told were simplistic, you see Simon didn’t love fishing, but if you asked anyone in Placim what his greatest hobby was, his wonderous passion, they would tell you the opposite.  But Simon Grace didn’t fish, he pretended to fish, as an escape.  He never really gathered why he thought the lie was sufficient, that he was going out to catch his own breakfast, lunch, dinner, but he did, he felt as Placim was a fishing village that that would be the most understandable distraction a young man could have.  No one asked question about a boy in a fishing village who wanted to go catch fish, why would they?  They would assume that such a boy was shaping himself for a lifelong career of carving up smelly bass and trout, a lifelong career where one dreamed of catching and parading around the gutted body of a razor shark.  He however cared nothing for such dreams, for such life choices.  Simon would set off with his fishing line, a bucket, and he would go to the old town worn away by typhoons, and eatin by the blowing dune sands, and sit, dipping his toes in the waters at the end of the oldest, most worn docks in all of Placim.  And when he was there he would stare across the great big blue at the Isle of Grimm where in his mind the greatest mystery of all lied, where questions could be answered, and where no one could get to.