Freckles, Part 1.

The basic premise to this story has been lying dormant in my notebook for about a year now. Something finally fell into place and what follows all gushed out of me in the space of about an hour. I am going for a Paul Jennings vibe on this one. Since this is my first piece of creative writing that I'm publishing to my blog, I would love to hear your creative criticism and/or ideas about where the story may lead.
Thanks for reading! Josh

Freckles
It started innocently enough. It was 1987. I was nine years old and my best friend Cory was nine years old and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to two nine-year-old boys to tattoo each other with permanent marker.
I was watching Cory put the finishing touches on a wicked looking barbarian warrior on my forearm when it hit me. His face was scrunched up in concentration, his tongue clamped determinedly between his teeth. Not for the first time I noticed his hair, curly, slightly longer than the fashion of the day and bright, fiery red. It matched his Super Friends t-shirt brilliantly. He was also blessed, as were all redheaded folk, with a full complement of freckles.
I sought to join them.
“Hurry up,” I told Cory. “I’ve got an idea.”
“Almost... done,” Cory said, rocking back on his knees. He tossed me the black marker.
“I need your face.”
Cory’s eyes widened. “Whoa, hold on. I don’t-”
“Ah!” I held up a hand for silence. He knew the deal: we each took turns drawing whatever we wanted on whatever part of the other’s body we wanted. It was too late to back out now, especially having two turns ago drawn a big set of fairy wings on my back.
Now it was my turn to concentrate. Before putting pen to freckle I paused a moment to take in the contours of my friend’s face and the placement of freckles that would underpin my masterpiece.
As I gazed at Cory’s face (an dhe gazed out the window, embarrassed at this close scrutiny) the freckles resolved themselves into something more than a collection of brown dots on ruddy pink skin. I don’t know how else to explain it to you, but it was like they spoke to me. And, armed with this knowledge, I began.
I do not know for how long I worked on my best friend’s face with that marker. Cory, for his part, sat stoically and allowed me to work, making not a sound.
When I finished the marker dropped my trembling fingers. Sensing that something bigger than us was at work we both moved soundlessly to the bathroom.
Eyes fixated on the mirror, Cory’s fingers traced the lines on his cheeks, his forehead, his nose. The lines remained; being permanent marker, they would remain long after the half hour my mum spent scrubbing at Cory’s face when she discovered us. But for now it was just the two of us, alone with our work.
“Is this... what I think it is?” Cory asked. His voice was uncharacteristically breathy and I supposed his heart beat just as hard and fast as my own.
“Yep. That’s a map.”

END OF PART ONE.