June 14, 2013 10:15 am (or 6:20 am)
The Story’s current stopped and the young girl twirled a fringe of her cloak between her fingers. She hugged her knees to her chest to control the tremors and rocked herself back and forth. A brief wind blew her hair away from her face, revealing her red eye, intent on the fire pit.
A ring of square stones encircled a heap of ashes and burnt wood. A single flame sprung from a discarded stone, although the flame did not consume it.
She was not cold, nor was the flame intended for warmth. In fact, if one held a hand to her forehead, it would feel hot as if with fever. The girl was sick, but not with any disease curable by medicine.
A holographic image appeared within the flame. She saw three children sitting in a classroom, all staring at Barnabus. He looked like he did right as he left: standing stiffly, twirling his mustache. The girl closest to him vaunted a ridiculous smile. Not for long, she thought. The priestess saw a pen in the girl’s hand. That meant she was the one Barnabus would have to write out of the Real World’s story. Her gaze shifted to the right hand of the holograph. A tall boy and barefoot girl were stunned into statues of surprise. Every time, it was the same thing. Denial, shock, excitement, then Barnabus won them over with his charm and- their story ended. Three children would hardly be any match for even the fool, Barnabus Lansky.
She saw the classroom door open. “You,” gasped a man, probably in his early forties. It only took her a second to focus on his face.
“What?!” She lept up and away from the fire. “No. But how...” Dropping onto her hands and knees, she squinted into the flame.
Could that really be Daniel Yates? She couldn’t believe it. Daniel Yates, of all people! The author of the Real World had a cruel sense of humor or else... this may be a chance for Barnabus to redeem himself. She held her breath. She dug her fingernails into her palms as the odd, happy girl handed Barnabus the pen. He began writing. Yes, yes. Finish it. Finish.
Her body convulsed with fury when Daniel barreled into Barnabus. How dare he...! She snatched a burnt log a sent it hurling down the hillside. She hissed between her teeth as if her very breath were a spirit of wrath. After several deep breathes, she seated herself again by the fire.
“Barnabus.” She sung, letting only a hint of anger seep into her melody. She knew it would be enough. “Barnabus.”
Barnabus knew that tone. He hurled himself toward the pen, but the boy got to it first. The very idea of a young clod in possession of such a invaluable instrument sent a fresh set of tremors up her spine.
“Barnabus, if you cannot handle the old man and three children, I will do it for you. I do have a way out. Heaven help you if I find you in the Real World.”
Saturday, February 22, 2014
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
Before and After the Curious Appearance of Barnabus Lansky Installment #5
June 14, 2013 10:20 a.m.
Before Barnabus could disappear along with the stone and the mouse, Mr. Yates strode into the room. “Alright, who wants to share first?” His voice sounded so loud compared with our stunned silence.
“Mr. Yates, look!” Cameron clutched her sides as if to keep herself from exploding with happiness. “I wrote him- I mean, I think the pen...”
But she didn’t have to tell him. Mr. Yates had already spotted the strange character. He turned as pale as the printer paper in his hands.
“You.” He took a step back.
Barnabus smiled. “Hello, Daniel.”
Finally, Sanders found his voice. “Wait a sec. First, Nicole and Cameron try some magic tricks, then Cameron thinks she has conjured up a character from her story, and Mr. Yates- our English teacher- knows this guy? No way. I’m not buying it. Next thing you know, Elaine will come back shouting that the zombie apocalypse has finally come.”
“Nah, that’s not ‘til next Tuesday.” Cameron was still clutching her sides. How could she joke now? “I’m Cameron, by the way.” She addressed Barnabus. “I wrote you out. Well, maybe the pen did. I’m not sure.”
“I am aware.” He bowed slightly. “Cameron, would you please hand me that pen you are holding and a piece of paper?” Barnabus stood formally with an out-stretched hand. His accent seemed mashed with modern English. It made me think that, “Lassy, would ye hand me that pen of yours and a piece of paper as well,” would roll off his tongue easier. Cameron curtsied, which looked funny in nike shorts, and handed him the requested items. At the same time, Mr. Yates cried, “Don’t!”
“Thank you.” Barnabus nodded his head and began writing. All of this happened so fast, I can’t remember what I was thinking when it did. The door shut behind Mr. Yates of its own accord and the clicking of a lock was heard. I felt frozen to my seat. The window blind pulled itself across the window and Cameron began to frown. Mr. Yates lunged for Barnabus and knocked him to the ground. Mr. Yates is bald with a sole patch and about five feet six. Watching him tackle the lanky Mr. Lansky was hard to process.
My teacher just tackled someone... was all I was able to think. I guess I found that more fantastic than substitutiary locomotion.
From the brief struggle on the ground, Mr. Yates called out, “The pen! Grab the pen!”
“But-” Cameron protested.
I was still in a stupor. “My English teacher just...”
Luckily, Sanders had his wits about himself and snatched the pen from the podium just as Barnabus freed himself from Mr. Yates and lunged. Finally, I snapped to attention, jumped up from my seat and backed up to the wall. I wanted to be as far away from Barnabus Lansky as possible. Cameron was still frowning; her initial glee was gone. Mr. Yates had scrambled to his desk by my left, still in a defensive stance.
Our antagonist brushed himself off, resumed his formal position in front of the door and surveyed us. “Now, that was not very productive.” He said coolly. “We are only where we started, except now, you are trapped. The door is locked, the window is shut, and your phone line has been cut.”
Suspiciously, Mr. Yates picked up his desk phone. His face fell. “He’s right.” Giving a stern teacher-look to each of us, he added. “Do not give him that pen again.”
“Darn.” Cameron sat on top of her desk. “I was really hoping he was a good guy.”
“Good guys don’t dress that nice.” I said once I found my voice.
“No, Cameron.” Mr. Yates was the most serious I had ever seen him, like a student had plagiarized on his essay. “Barnabus Lansky is a villain.”
There was a moment of silence. Fear clutched at me with its many claws: my throat, my heart, my stomach.
Barnabus threw up his hands. “Well, if ye wish to be all bloody cynical about it, yeh.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry. I just meant don’t be so pessimistic. I don’t have to be the bad guy.” This confirmed my suspicion that Barnabus was not accustomed to modern English.
“Only a bad guy would say that.”
I’ve heard it said that in moments of terror, you remember small, insignificant details. This is true, and for me, at that moment, my small, insignificant detail was the book case in the back of the room. It was a plain, black book case with three shelves nine feet long. The books on the top shelf were in the best condition. All the rest had blunted corners or torn pages or weak binding. Most of the characters in those stories would be much braver, if they were here right now. Even Huckleberry Finn.
I think I can be as brave as Huckleberry Finn. I will have to try. I clenched my fists and opened my mouth, but Sanders spoke the words before I could.
“Not that I will believe anything you have to say, but I want either Mr. Yates or you-” he pointed at Barnabus, clutching the pen like a comfort object in his right hand “-to please explain the situation. And I don’t want any cozenage.”
Cozenage? Yes. Sanders does have a bigger vocabulary than Webster.
Barnabus tightened his lips. “You are not in the position to be negotiating, young man. Trust me.”
“No way am I gonna trust you!” Sanders backed up until he was against the wall next to me. “I’ll- I’ll break this pen if you don’t tell us what you want it for.”
This time, Barnabus laughed and shook his head. How stupid you are, little boy, he seemed to be thinking, but said in an amused voice. “You cannot break that pen, but if you give it to me, I will be gone as soon as I finish writing.” He indicated to his paper on the podium.
I covered my ears tightly. “This makes no sense. Nothing anybody is saying makes sense.” Then I looked up suddenly, eyes wide. Elaine!
Before Barnabus could disappear along with the stone and the mouse, Mr. Yates strode into the room. “Alright, who wants to share first?” His voice sounded so loud compared with our stunned silence.
“Mr. Yates, look!” Cameron clutched her sides as if to keep herself from exploding with happiness. “I wrote him- I mean, I think the pen...”
But she didn’t have to tell him. Mr. Yates had already spotted the strange character. He turned as pale as the printer paper in his hands.
“You.” He took a step back.
Barnabus smiled. “Hello, Daniel.”
Finally, Sanders found his voice. “Wait a sec. First, Nicole and Cameron try some magic tricks, then Cameron thinks she has conjured up a character from her story, and Mr. Yates- our English teacher- knows this guy? No way. I’m not buying it. Next thing you know, Elaine will come back shouting that the zombie apocalypse has finally come.”
“Nah, that’s not ‘til next Tuesday.” Cameron was still clutching her sides. How could she joke now? “I’m Cameron, by the way.” She addressed Barnabus. “I wrote you out. Well, maybe the pen did. I’m not sure.”
“I am aware.” He bowed slightly. “Cameron, would you please hand me that pen you are holding and a piece of paper?” Barnabus stood formally with an out-stretched hand. His accent seemed mashed with modern English. It made me think that, “Lassy, would ye hand me that pen of yours and a piece of paper as well,” would roll off his tongue easier. Cameron curtsied, which looked funny in nike shorts, and handed him the requested items. At the same time, Mr. Yates cried, “Don’t!”
“Thank you.” Barnabus nodded his head and began writing. All of this happened so fast, I can’t remember what I was thinking when it did. The door shut behind Mr. Yates of its own accord and the clicking of a lock was heard. I felt frozen to my seat. The window blind pulled itself across the window and Cameron began to frown. Mr. Yates lunged for Barnabus and knocked him to the ground. Mr. Yates is bald with a sole patch and about five feet six. Watching him tackle the lanky Mr. Lansky was hard to process.
My teacher just tackled someone... was all I was able to think. I guess I found that more fantastic than substitutiary locomotion.
From the brief struggle on the ground, Mr. Yates called out, “The pen! Grab the pen!”
“But-” Cameron protested.
I was still in a stupor. “My English teacher just...”
Luckily, Sanders had his wits about himself and snatched the pen from the podium just as Barnabus freed himself from Mr. Yates and lunged. Finally, I snapped to attention, jumped up from my seat and backed up to the wall. I wanted to be as far away from Barnabus Lansky as possible. Cameron was still frowning; her initial glee was gone. Mr. Yates had scrambled to his desk by my left, still in a defensive stance.
Our antagonist brushed himself off, resumed his formal position in front of the door and surveyed us. “Now, that was not very productive.” He said coolly. “We are only where we started, except now, you are trapped. The door is locked, the window is shut, and your phone line has been cut.”
Suspiciously, Mr. Yates picked up his desk phone. His face fell. “He’s right.” Giving a stern teacher-look to each of us, he added. “Do not give him that pen again.”
“Darn.” Cameron sat on top of her desk. “I was really hoping he was a good guy.”
“Good guys don’t dress that nice.” I said once I found my voice.
“No, Cameron.” Mr. Yates was the most serious I had ever seen him, like a student had plagiarized on his essay. “Barnabus Lansky is a villain.”
There was a moment of silence. Fear clutched at me with its many claws: my throat, my heart, my stomach.
Barnabus threw up his hands. “Well, if ye wish to be all bloody cynical about it, yeh.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry. I just meant don’t be so pessimistic. I don’t have to be the bad guy.” This confirmed my suspicion that Barnabus was not accustomed to modern English.
“Only a bad guy would say that.”
I’ve heard it said that in moments of terror, you remember small, insignificant details. This is true, and for me, at that moment, my small, insignificant detail was the book case in the back of the room. It was a plain, black book case with three shelves nine feet long. The books on the top shelf were in the best condition. All the rest had blunted corners or torn pages or weak binding. Most of the characters in those stories would be much braver, if they were here right now. Even Huckleberry Finn.
I think I can be as brave as Huckleberry Finn. I will have to try. I clenched my fists and opened my mouth, but Sanders spoke the words before I could.
“Not that I will believe anything you have to say, but I want either Mr. Yates or you-” he pointed at Barnabus, clutching the pen like a comfort object in his right hand “-to please explain the situation. And I don’t want any cozenage.”
Cozenage? Yes. Sanders does have a bigger vocabulary than Webster.
Barnabus tightened his lips. “You are not in the position to be negotiating, young man. Trust me.”
“No way am I gonna trust you!” Sanders backed up until he was against the wall next to me. “I’ll- I’ll break this pen if you don’t tell us what you want it for.”
This time, Barnabus laughed and shook his head. How stupid you are, little boy, he seemed to be thinking, but said in an amused voice. “You cannot break that pen, but if you give it to me, I will be gone as soon as I finish writing.” He indicated to his paper on the podium.
I covered my ears tightly. “This makes no sense. Nothing anybody is saying makes sense.” Then I looked up suddenly, eyes wide. Elaine!
Friday, October 18, 2013
Before and After the Curious Appearance of Barnabus Lansky Installment #4
August 28, 1959 4:20 p.m.
“It’s a beautiful day here at the Mikkleson’s race course and we’re expecting some heavy competition.” Freddie Mikkleson bellowed in his best announcer voice as he biked in circles on the driveway. “The bikers have lined up and- BAM! -they’re off! Mikkelson is in the lead, no surprise there. He’s had a wonderful season. There he goes and-” Freddie wasn’t watching his turns. “-Ka-Boom! I can’t believe it! Somebody put a bomb on the track. Must have been a Russian. Mikkleson is down and let’s hope that he came out of that explosion in fewer pieces than his bike.” Freddie had fallen over into the grass. He picked up a kite left from last night and ran to the back yard. “Well, folks, I’ve just been informed that anyone bombed on a bike race may use a helicopter to complete the race.” Freddie held the kite high above his head and spun in circles until his face turned red. “He passes over the Mississippi and zooms past a forrest Umph!” Freddie tripped over an untied shoelace. “Oh, no! The fuel tank had a leak! Leaving the wreckage of his helicopter behind, Mikkleson now wanders, in search of the bike trail. This fearless biker is not intimidated. Always prepared, he fires a flare gun.” Freddie raised a finger gun and pulled the trigger. “This biker is brilliant! Can nothing stop him? I see a jet landing and Mikkleson boards it.” Freddie spread out his arms and sprinted toward the patio- the finish line. “Amazing! Despite a bombing, a helicopter wreck, and no bike, Mikkleson has come in first place in this bike race.” Freddie collapsed contentedly on the lawn, completely unaware of his father scowling at him.
“A bike race?” Mr. Mikkleson muttered though his cigarette. “The kid’s crazy. A bike race? How’s he gonna provide for a family riding a bike? Every day it’s somethin’ new. A biker, an archeologist. Where does he get all these ideas? And those explosions- humph! As if we weren’t all paranoid enough. That kid. That crazy kid...”
“That crazy kid is your son.” Mrs. Mikkleson wrapped her arms around her husband, but she looked with equal concern at Freddie. “He’ll grow out of it. Can you mow the lawn tomorrow?”
Mr. Mikkleson didn’t take his eyes off his son. “Sure. I think I’ll teach Fred to mow.”
“Sweetheart, he’s only nine years old.”
“That old already, huh?” He smashed the cigarette against the side of the house. “Well, then it’s about time he learned something practical.”
“It’s a beautiful day here at the Mikkleson’s race course and we’re expecting some heavy competition.” Freddie Mikkleson bellowed in his best announcer voice as he biked in circles on the driveway. “The bikers have lined up and- BAM! -they’re off! Mikkelson is in the lead, no surprise there. He’s had a wonderful season. There he goes and-” Freddie wasn’t watching his turns. “-Ka-Boom! I can’t believe it! Somebody put a bomb on the track. Must have been a Russian. Mikkleson is down and let’s hope that he came out of that explosion in fewer pieces than his bike.” Freddie had fallen over into the grass. He picked up a kite left from last night and ran to the back yard. “Well, folks, I’ve just been informed that anyone bombed on a bike race may use a helicopter to complete the race.” Freddie held the kite high above his head and spun in circles until his face turned red. “He passes over the Mississippi and zooms past a forrest Umph!” Freddie tripped over an untied shoelace. “Oh, no! The fuel tank had a leak! Leaving the wreckage of his helicopter behind, Mikkleson now wanders, in search of the bike trail. This fearless biker is not intimidated. Always prepared, he fires a flare gun.” Freddie raised a finger gun and pulled the trigger. “This biker is brilliant! Can nothing stop him? I see a jet landing and Mikkleson boards it.” Freddie spread out his arms and sprinted toward the patio- the finish line. “Amazing! Despite a bombing, a helicopter wreck, and no bike, Mikkleson has come in first place in this bike race.” Freddie collapsed contentedly on the lawn, completely unaware of his father scowling at him.
“A bike race?” Mr. Mikkleson muttered though his cigarette. “The kid’s crazy. A bike race? How’s he gonna provide for a family riding a bike? Every day it’s somethin’ new. A biker, an archeologist. Where does he get all these ideas? And those explosions- humph! As if we weren’t all paranoid enough. That kid. That crazy kid...”
“That crazy kid is your son.” Mrs. Mikkleson wrapped her arms around her husband, but she looked with equal concern at Freddie. “He’ll grow out of it. Can you mow the lawn tomorrow?”
Mr. Mikkleson didn’t take his eyes off his son. “Sure. I think I’ll teach Fred to mow.”
“Sweetheart, he’s only nine years old.”
“That old already, huh?” He smashed the cigarette against the side of the house. “Well, then it’s about time he learned something practical.”
Saturday, October 5, 2013
Before and After the Curious Appearence of Barnabus Lansky Installemnt #3
{3} June 13, 2013 9:05 a.m.
Cameron blushed. How could she have forgotten a pen? She didn’t like asking people for things .
“Nicole, do you have an extra pen?” she asked the girl to her right.
“No, sorry. I only brought one today. Why don’t you ask Mr. Yates? I’m sure he has plenty.” Nicole turned back to Elaine, who was describing her creek after last night’s rain storm.
Cameron shoved her hands into the deep pockets of her basketball shorts and sheepishly asked for a pen. Mr. Yates gave her a teasing frown and then handed her a jar of writing utensils as he prepped the screen projector. Cameron grabbed a metal pen, the kind that you twist to open, and put the jar back on the desk. She always liked pens better than pencils. Pencils made an irritating scratching noise and the mechanical kind always ran out of graphite at the most inconvenient times. Pens wrote smoothly and it was so satisfying to scribble out mistakes.
Five minutes later, her embarrassment was lost in the labyrinth of words. She elaborated on simple sentences like ‘The house was big.’ and composed a scene with two long lost brothers forgiving each other. She loved stories, especially the ones where magic was involved or children were kidnapped. On long car rides, she would stare out the window and imagine other worlds and their histories, but she could hardly ever write them down. As soon as she held a pen the ideas seemed to stop, like the path from her mind to the page was clogged with ideas. She hoped that this class would equip her to document all the wonderful tales her imagination had bottled up.
Just before break, though, the pen ran out of ink. When Mr. Yates was out of the room, she swapped the dead pen for another on his desk, so she wouldn’t have to ask a second time. It looked old and worn, but other than that, Cameron didn’t give it much thought. Then she joined Elaine by the window.
“It’s so sunny outside.” Elaine smiled contentedly. “You couldn’t guess that it rained four inches last night. After the workshop, I’m going to sit by the creek in my backyard and sing.”
“That sounds nice.” Cameron sighed. “After this workshop, I’m going to an open gym with some basketball friends.”
“Alright, let’s bring it back together.” Mr. Yates’ voice reminded Cameron of a T.V. announcer. Always loud, always intense, as if everything deserved one hundred percent excitement. But there wasn’t much to bring back together with only four students.
It turned out that Cameron didn’t even need another pen for the last hour of class. They read scenes they themselves had written and critiqued them, then Mr. Yates explained the concept of beats in a scene. They looked at several examples from books and two movie clips. Mr. Yates assigned them a short story to write for the next day and dismissed the class. Mind swimming with ideas, Cameron didn’t think about the notebook and pen she threw into her sinch-pack.
Basketball took her mind off of the morning. She shot free-throws and scrimmaged with her friends. She was glad for sports to give her mind a break. She wasn’t bad at school, but there were so many rules and formulas and standards to follow. She just wanted to have fun.
That night after dinner, Cameron unpacked her bag to find Mr. Yates’ pen. She sighed and hoped he wouldn’t notice it was missing. She flopped on her bed to write her assigned story. Might as well use the pen, now that I have it, she thought. The assignment was to write a scene about a family gathering with conflict. Cameron already was imagining the rebellious brother who eloped and brought home the girl for Christmas. She was about to write, “They all squirmed in their seats when Jeremy walked in with her.” but instead wrote, “It was a still night, except for one man who sat on his bed, wide awake.” Cameron took her hand from the page. That was weird. Where had that sentence come from? Maybe she was just tired. She needed to focus. She tried to cross the sentence out, but, as if her hand was being controlled by someone else’s brain, it wrote, “His eyes were open wide, like he could pierce the darkness if he mustered enough concentration.” Again, she pulled her hand away and stared dumbstruck at what she had written. She yawned and glanced at her clock. 9:02. She know a lot of her friends could stay up as late as one in the morning, but she had sports practices in the morning, which meant early to bed and early to rise. Was it because she was so sleepy that she couldn’t write what she meant?
After splashing her face with cold water, Cameron resumed her seat on the bed with renewed determination. She would finish this scene and then she would get some sleep.
“Then, a single ray of light cut thro-” Cameron was frustrated now. What was going on? Why wouldn’t her hand form the letters she wanted? She had had trouble with writing before, but always because she didn’t know where to begin, not because she didn’t know how to stop.
Perhaps my subconscious is trying to tell me something. Perhaps I’ll learn that I have a super power or can use magic.
Now very curious, Cameron touched the pen to the page and read as she wrote:
“ugh the darkness as easily as one cuts through jelly. The man walked to his window, impatient for the day to begin.”
The story went on to describe, in great detail, the sunrise and farm country. Cameron was so enraptured with the quaint barns in the pale morning light, she almost forgot the man sitting at the window until the story shifted from what he saw, to what he did. The story said he was so eager to get somewhere, that for the first time since he was sixteen, the man wore a three piece suit instead of lederhosens. Cameron wondered where and when this man lived to have worn lederhosens all his life, but when she wrote, “Suddenly remembering this, he grabbed his lederhosens from the drawer, stared at them a moment, then stuffed them back, anxious to start moving.” A sound somewhere between a click of a pen and several people snapping in unison caught her attention.
Jolted out of the strange story, Cameron looked around herself. But nothing was there. Just her dresser, a box of old stuffed animals, and dirty laundry on the floor.
Wait. She thought. Dirty laundry? I never leave laundry on the floor. That’s disgusting.
She rolled off her bed to examine what had caught her eye. They were like suspenders, but with an extra fold of material in the front. Cameron dropped the thing as a shiver ran up her spine. Lederhosens.
Her heart rate must have doubled. Lederhosens. Just like in the story. Even with the faded embroidery on the edges. Before, lederhosens just made her laugh. They looked so funny, she couldn’t take anyone seriously if they wore them. But now, and afterwards, lederhosens terrified her. Did she write them out of the story, like people could read things out in Inkheart? Cameron smiled. This was... she searched for the right word, but all she could think was ‘epic.’
And then, much too soon, the lederhosens disappeared soundlessly. Cameron blinked. “No! No, it was here. It was.” She ran all over her room, trying to find them, to prove she wasn’t crazy, but they were gone. Disappointed and exhausted, she crawled under her bed covers. She was tired and was probably sleep walking.
As she closed her eyes, Cameron couldn’t help but feel upset with the stupid lederhosens for disappearing.
Cameron blushed. How could she have forgotten a pen? She didn’t like asking people for things .
“Nicole, do you have an extra pen?” she asked the girl to her right.
“No, sorry. I only brought one today. Why don’t you ask Mr. Yates? I’m sure he has plenty.” Nicole turned back to Elaine, who was describing her creek after last night’s rain storm.
Cameron shoved her hands into the deep pockets of her basketball shorts and sheepishly asked for a pen. Mr. Yates gave her a teasing frown and then handed her a jar of writing utensils as he prepped the screen projector. Cameron grabbed a metal pen, the kind that you twist to open, and put the jar back on the desk. She always liked pens better than pencils. Pencils made an irritating scratching noise and the mechanical kind always ran out of graphite at the most inconvenient times. Pens wrote smoothly and it was so satisfying to scribble out mistakes.
Five minutes later, her embarrassment was lost in the labyrinth of words. She elaborated on simple sentences like ‘The house was big.’ and composed a scene with two long lost brothers forgiving each other. She loved stories, especially the ones where magic was involved or children were kidnapped. On long car rides, she would stare out the window and imagine other worlds and their histories, but she could hardly ever write them down. As soon as she held a pen the ideas seemed to stop, like the path from her mind to the page was clogged with ideas. She hoped that this class would equip her to document all the wonderful tales her imagination had bottled up.
Just before break, though, the pen ran out of ink. When Mr. Yates was out of the room, she swapped the dead pen for another on his desk, so she wouldn’t have to ask a second time. It looked old and worn, but other than that, Cameron didn’t give it much thought. Then she joined Elaine by the window.
“It’s so sunny outside.” Elaine smiled contentedly. “You couldn’t guess that it rained four inches last night. After the workshop, I’m going to sit by the creek in my backyard and sing.”
“That sounds nice.” Cameron sighed. “After this workshop, I’m going to an open gym with some basketball friends.”
“Alright, let’s bring it back together.” Mr. Yates’ voice reminded Cameron of a T.V. announcer. Always loud, always intense, as if everything deserved one hundred percent excitement. But there wasn’t much to bring back together with only four students.
It turned out that Cameron didn’t even need another pen for the last hour of class. They read scenes they themselves had written and critiqued them, then Mr. Yates explained the concept of beats in a scene. They looked at several examples from books and two movie clips. Mr. Yates assigned them a short story to write for the next day and dismissed the class. Mind swimming with ideas, Cameron didn’t think about the notebook and pen she threw into her sinch-pack.
Basketball took her mind off of the morning. She shot free-throws and scrimmaged with her friends. She was glad for sports to give her mind a break. She wasn’t bad at school, but there were so many rules and formulas and standards to follow. She just wanted to have fun.
That night after dinner, Cameron unpacked her bag to find Mr. Yates’ pen. She sighed and hoped he wouldn’t notice it was missing. She flopped on her bed to write her assigned story. Might as well use the pen, now that I have it, she thought. The assignment was to write a scene about a family gathering with conflict. Cameron already was imagining the rebellious brother who eloped and brought home the girl for Christmas. She was about to write, “They all squirmed in their seats when Jeremy walked in with her.” but instead wrote, “It was a still night, except for one man who sat on his bed, wide awake.” Cameron took her hand from the page. That was weird. Where had that sentence come from? Maybe she was just tired. She needed to focus. She tried to cross the sentence out, but, as if her hand was being controlled by someone else’s brain, it wrote, “His eyes were open wide, like he could pierce the darkness if he mustered enough concentration.” Again, she pulled her hand away and stared dumbstruck at what she had written. She yawned and glanced at her clock. 9:02. She know a lot of her friends could stay up as late as one in the morning, but she had sports practices in the morning, which meant early to bed and early to rise. Was it because she was so sleepy that she couldn’t write what she meant?
After splashing her face with cold water, Cameron resumed her seat on the bed with renewed determination. She would finish this scene and then she would get some sleep.
“Then, a single ray of light cut thro-” Cameron was frustrated now. What was going on? Why wouldn’t her hand form the letters she wanted? She had had trouble with writing before, but always because she didn’t know where to begin, not because she didn’t know how to stop.
Perhaps my subconscious is trying to tell me something. Perhaps I’ll learn that I have a super power or can use magic.
Now very curious, Cameron touched the pen to the page and read as she wrote:
“ugh the darkness as easily as one cuts through jelly. The man walked to his window, impatient for the day to begin.”
The story went on to describe, in great detail, the sunrise and farm country. Cameron was so enraptured with the quaint barns in the pale morning light, she almost forgot the man sitting at the window until the story shifted from what he saw, to what he did. The story said he was so eager to get somewhere, that for the first time since he was sixteen, the man wore a three piece suit instead of lederhosens. Cameron wondered where and when this man lived to have worn lederhosens all his life, but when she wrote, “Suddenly remembering this, he grabbed his lederhosens from the drawer, stared at them a moment, then stuffed them back, anxious to start moving.” A sound somewhere between a click of a pen and several people snapping in unison caught her attention.
Jolted out of the strange story, Cameron looked around herself. But nothing was there. Just her dresser, a box of old stuffed animals, and dirty laundry on the floor.
Wait. She thought. Dirty laundry? I never leave laundry on the floor. That’s disgusting.
She rolled off her bed to examine what had caught her eye. They were like suspenders, but with an extra fold of material in the front. Cameron dropped the thing as a shiver ran up her spine. Lederhosens.
Her heart rate must have doubled. Lederhosens. Just like in the story. Even with the faded embroidery on the edges. Before, lederhosens just made her laugh. They looked so funny, she couldn’t take anyone seriously if they wore them. But now, and afterwards, lederhosens terrified her. Did she write them out of the story, like people could read things out in Inkheart? Cameron smiled. This was... she searched for the right word, but all she could think was ‘epic.’
And then, much too soon, the lederhosens disappeared soundlessly. Cameron blinked. “No! No, it was here. It was.” She ran all over her room, trying to find them, to prove she wasn’t crazy, but they were gone. Disappointed and exhausted, she crawled under her bed covers. She was tired and was probably sleep walking.
As she closed her eyes, Cameron couldn’t help but feel upset with the stupid lederhosens for disappearing.
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
Before and After the Curious Appearence of Barnabus Lansky (Installment #2)
June 14, 2013 Either 10:00 a.m. or 5:28 a.m. (depending on how you look at it)
Barnabus waited. He felt The Story being written again.
As he sat in the darkness, he thought about what he had called home during the last century: The Story. His story. The Pen-Maker should have chosen a more unique or intriguing title than The Story. Perhaps The Tales of Barnabus Lansky. He chuckled at his vanity, but he had been the first character, after all, to join.
A faint light appeared from his window. He crept toward it, groping as to not trip over his accordion. The sunrises were lonelier recently. He remembered his first sunrise shared with another character. When asked how The Story worked, Barnabus had told his friend that living here was like swimming in a river. If you go with the current, it’s easy and smooth, but if you fight it, you will fail and it will hurt.
But Barnabus was now swimming the river alone. Just like the old days, he thought. Just me and my accordion.
This was not strictly true, but Barnabus kept to himself in between the writings of The Story.
The sunrise was beautiful, just as it was any time someone wrote The Story. The light blushed a pale rose, and then, as it gained more confidence, a blazing yellow. Barnabus was able to make out the familiar lumpy, green hills and criss-cross farm patches. Sometimes it reminded him of quilt work, and other times, of a mosaic. The green was so bright a vital, it seemed that it was lighting up the sun, rather than the other way around. He never tired of watching this same sunrise. It meant another job- he loved his jobs. It meant another visit to the Real World.
The current of The Story pushed him away from the window. Barnabus obediently dressed in a smart, green three-piece suit. I think I’d look more dashing in red, he thought, while oiling his handle bar mustache. Green makes me look like a leprechaun. Next time he had the pen, he would have to try again to make a few more edits. Changing the course of a river is a monstrous task, but if one is clever enough, it can be done. Barnabus had done it once before, but at a horrendous cost. Since then, he hadn’t been able to make the slightest change to The Story. But someday, very soon...
His thoughts were interrupted when he remembered the lederhosens. He picked them up, wincing. He hated the things. The Pen-Maker must have written them in as a joke. He always did have a strange sense of humor. According to The Story, this was the first day since he was sixteen Barnabus had decided to not wear lederhosens. In reality, he had never worn them in his life. Today must have been somewhere around the sixty-seventh time he had first decided to not wear lederhosens.
He stuffed his wrist watch in his pocket and his pocket hankerchief up his sleeve. The full circle of the sun could almost be seen over the furthest hill. Barnabus would have to hurry if he were to be on time. He climbed through his bedroom window (because it was faster than using the front door) and sauntered to the red speck several hills eastward.
It was a fairly quiet walk, with only one rooster in the distance crowing every thirty seconds. It must have been in the west because the further Barnabus walked, the more distant its cock-a-doodle-doo sounded. The air smelled of manure and mist. He didn’t mind. It smelled almost pleasant in the morning. The fresh, young sunlight filled his spirit like a breath of cold, fall air fills a person’s lungs. He felt particularly cheerful about this job. He would get it done right. Not like last time... Barnabus shook his head. The past was the past. No need to dwell on it.
“Good morning.” He said to a tan cow. The cow blinked its large brown eyes in return and swished its tail indignantly. Good morning indeed! She seemed to say. Don’t flatter yourself, sir. I’ve know all you’ve done and you are going to do it again now. Oh, no. This is not a good morning.
Barnabus wondered how the Pen-Maker had gotten all that into a blink of a cow. He couldn’t have. The Pen-Maker didn’t know what he had done, did he? Barnabus stiffened at the terrifying thought. Luckily, he arrived at his destination before he could entertain that idea any longer. The red speck in the distance was now a smoldering fire only three feet in front of him. It gave off hardly any light or heat, so it must have been burning all night. The glowing embers were hundreds of blood-shot eyes, blinking at him, accusing him.
Why so paranoid, Barnabus? There is nothing of which to accuse you.
He rubbed his hands to warm them in the chilly morning air. “Is everything ready?” He whispered, right on schedule.
A brown mouse scurried from behind a lone tree. It sniffed along the ground until it was opposite Barnabus, across the fire. It stood on its hind paws and slowly began to glow a light as red as the fire, though stronger than the fire and even stronger than the sun. It was a strange sight, except he was used to it now. He closed his eyes when the light became too bright and when it faded away, the mouse had transformed into a magic druid. Instead of fur, the druid wore a tattered brown cloak. The former mouse threw a red crystal into the fire, which blazed a little, sending sparks shooting into the air.
“Of course it’s ready.” A melodic, high-pitched voice sung. The priestess threw back her hood to reveal tanned skin, dark hair and two different colored eyes: one as brown as the rich Irish earth and the other red like the embers. She was young. Her eyes were always opened wide. It made her brown eye look innocent, but her red eye angry and accusing, just like the embers. “You know what to do, Barnabus. Have fun.” Her mouth smiled, but he could hear a harsh voice in his head. Don’t let it happen again.
Barnabus winced. He had only failed once- once in over a hundred years! Now all of a sudden he couldn’t do anything right? He twirled his mustache impatiently as the beautiful morning faded away. He wondered who had written the story this time. Who would he have to kill?
Barnabus waited. He felt The Story being written again.
As he sat in the darkness, he thought about what he had called home during the last century: The Story. His story. The Pen-Maker should have chosen a more unique or intriguing title than The Story. Perhaps The Tales of Barnabus Lansky. He chuckled at his vanity, but he had been the first character, after all, to join.
A faint light appeared from his window. He crept toward it, groping as to not trip over his accordion. The sunrises were lonelier recently. He remembered his first sunrise shared with another character. When asked how The Story worked, Barnabus had told his friend that living here was like swimming in a river. If you go with the current, it’s easy and smooth, but if you fight it, you will fail and it will hurt.
But Barnabus was now swimming the river alone. Just like the old days, he thought. Just me and my accordion.
This was not strictly true, but Barnabus kept to himself in between the writings of The Story.
The sunrise was beautiful, just as it was any time someone wrote The Story. The light blushed a pale rose, and then, as it gained more confidence, a blazing yellow. Barnabus was able to make out the familiar lumpy, green hills and criss-cross farm patches. Sometimes it reminded him of quilt work, and other times, of a mosaic. The green was so bright a vital, it seemed that it was lighting up the sun, rather than the other way around. He never tired of watching this same sunrise. It meant another job- he loved his jobs. It meant another visit to the Real World.
The current of The Story pushed him away from the window. Barnabus obediently dressed in a smart, green three-piece suit. I think I’d look more dashing in red, he thought, while oiling his handle bar mustache. Green makes me look like a leprechaun. Next time he had the pen, he would have to try again to make a few more edits. Changing the course of a river is a monstrous task, but if one is clever enough, it can be done. Barnabus had done it once before, but at a horrendous cost. Since then, he hadn’t been able to make the slightest change to The Story. But someday, very soon...
His thoughts were interrupted when he remembered the lederhosens. He picked them up, wincing. He hated the things. The Pen-Maker must have written them in as a joke. He always did have a strange sense of humor. According to The Story, this was the first day since he was sixteen Barnabus had decided to not wear lederhosens. In reality, he had never worn them in his life. Today must have been somewhere around the sixty-seventh time he had first decided to not wear lederhosens.
He stuffed his wrist watch in his pocket and his pocket hankerchief up his sleeve. The full circle of the sun could almost be seen over the furthest hill. Barnabus would have to hurry if he were to be on time. He climbed through his bedroom window (because it was faster than using the front door) and sauntered to the red speck several hills eastward.
It was a fairly quiet walk, with only one rooster in the distance crowing every thirty seconds. It must have been in the west because the further Barnabus walked, the more distant its cock-a-doodle-doo sounded. The air smelled of manure and mist. He didn’t mind. It smelled almost pleasant in the morning. The fresh, young sunlight filled his spirit like a breath of cold, fall air fills a person’s lungs. He felt particularly cheerful about this job. He would get it done right. Not like last time... Barnabus shook his head. The past was the past. No need to dwell on it.
“Good morning.” He said to a tan cow. The cow blinked its large brown eyes in return and swished its tail indignantly. Good morning indeed! She seemed to say. Don’t flatter yourself, sir. I’ve know all you’ve done and you are going to do it again now. Oh, no. This is not a good morning.
Barnabus wondered how the Pen-Maker had gotten all that into a blink of a cow. He couldn’t have. The Pen-Maker didn’t know what he had done, did he? Barnabus stiffened at the terrifying thought. Luckily, he arrived at his destination before he could entertain that idea any longer. The red speck in the distance was now a smoldering fire only three feet in front of him. It gave off hardly any light or heat, so it must have been burning all night. The glowing embers were hundreds of blood-shot eyes, blinking at him, accusing him.
Why so paranoid, Barnabus? There is nothing of which to accuse you.
He rubbed his hands to warm them in the chilly morning air. “Is everything ready?” He whispered, right on schedule.
A brown mouse scurried from behind a lone tree. It sniffed along the ground until it was opposite Barnabus, across the fire. It stood on its hind paws and slowly began to glow a light as red as the fire, though stronger than the fire and even stronger than the sun. It was a strange sight, except he was used to it now. He closed his eyes when the light became too bright and when it faded away, the mouse had transformed into a magic druid. Instead of fur, the druid wore a tattered brown cloak. The former mouse threw a red crystal into the fire, which blazed a little, sending sparks shooting into the air.
“Of course it’s ready.” A melodic, high-pitched voice sung. The priestess threw back her hood to reveal tanned skin, dark hair and two different colored eyes: one as brown as the rich Irish earth and the other red like the embers. She was young. Her eyes were always opened wide. It made her brown eye look innocent, but her red eye angry and accusing, just like the embers. “You know what to do, Barnabus. Have fun.” Her mouth smiled, but he could hear a harsh voice in his head. Don’t let it happen again.
Barnabus winced. He had only failed once- once in over a hundred years! Now all of a sudden he couldn’t do anything right? He twirled his mustache impatiently as the beautiful morning faded away. He wondered who had written the story this time. Who would he have to kill?
Monday, September 16, 2013
Before and After the Curious Appearence of Barnabus Lansky (Installment #1)
{1} June 14, 2013 10:15 a.m.
The three of them sat bent over their desks, waving their pens like magic wands over the paper. It was only the third day of Mr. Yates’ summer writing workshop, but I was frustrated that my writing couldn’t reach the level of the others’. Cameron, to my left, was probably whipping out some hilarious dramatic irony. She swung her feet impatiently because her pen couldn’t keep up with her imagination. I stared at my blank page. We were supposed to compose a scene in which something unexpected happened. How much more generic could you get? Something unexpected... wasn’t that all that happened in stories?
“Writer’s block?” Elaine offered a look of sympathy from across the semi-circle of desks. I nodded. Elaine was the shiest in our group. She hated reading her works aloud, but I couldn’t see why. Her work with adjectives was always brilliant. “Just start spitting out words.” She whispered. “They’ll take you somewhere.”
“Shhh! I can’t think when you’re talking so loud.” Sanders drawled sarcastically. “That is, if I wanted to think.”
I rolled my eyes. Sanders may have acted like he couldn’t do anything, but he had a bigger vocabulary than Webster. I think he tried to make up for the lack of boys in the workshop by adding extra gore to his stories.
“About eight more minutes.” Mr. Yates said, squinting at the clock. “Then we’ll hear what you guys came up with.”
I tried to take Elaine’s advice and wrote the first sentence that came into my head:
Bob didn’t expect this to happen.
With a groan of frustration, I scribbled out the sorry excuse for a sentence.
“I have to print out copies of our next exercise. I’ll be right back.” Mr. Yates walked out. Even though it was summer and he wore T-shirt and jeans, he still walked like a teacher. Maybe it was the authoritative, deliberate steps or the confidence with which he navigated the halls. I wondered if all teachers used a certain walk in school or if it was just at Anderson High School.
Elaine wandered to the window. She tugged at her blond hair and chewed her lip. I joined her. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s so nice outside.” She gazed at the wind bending the long grass behind the school. “See how sunny it is? And we’ve been sitting so long in here...”
“Elaine, really. You looked forward all month to this workshop. Why-”
“Shhh!” Sanders hissed at us. “Only six minutes left.”
I stuck my tongue out and turned my back to him.
“I need inspiration.” Elaine whispered, still staring out the window. “And if I happen to miss my turn for reading aloud, that wouldn’t be the end of the world...” She tore her gaze from outside and looked at me hopefully. “Will you cover for me? I’ll only be gone a few minutes.”
“What should I say?”
Elaine grabbed her cell-phone and stuffed it in her pocket. “Tell him I’ve gone to the bathroom or that my mom called me or... you’ll think of something. I promise I won’t stay too long.”
With that, she had slipped out of the room. I sighed and sat back in my chair, clicking my pen on my desk until Sanders told me to stop.
Click. Click.
“I asked you to stop.” He was really frustrated now. Maybe his character hadn’t died as dramatically as he had hoped.
But I had stopped clicking my pen. I held my empty hands up to show him.
Click-click. Click.
I turned to the only other person in the room. Cameron was still scratching away at her paper, so fast I could have sworn sparks were flying from her pen. My jaw dropped. Sparks were coming from her pen. Each time one appeared, a sharp clicking noise could be heard. They faded into ash and harmlessly drifted to the ground. Cameron could feel both Sanders’ and my stares. She slammed her hands over her paper, like she was afraid we would read it. The sparks stopped as soon as she took her pen off the page.
“What?” She asked accusingly. Her expression was hard to read. Had she seen the sparks? I just shook my head. Maybe it was just the sun shining on dust motes, but what about the clicking noise?
Before I had much time to wonder, their was a prolonged smacking sound, like someone knocking his tongue on the roof of his mouth. It came from under Cameron’s desk, so naturally that is where I looked. I stifled a squeal. A real, live, brown mouse scurried over Cameron’s shoes and then disappeared, vanished, poof. Like magicians do into clouds of smoke. Only the mouse did it without smoke.
Cameron jumped at my small scream. “There wasn’t a mouse under my chair, was there?” I nodded, speechless. Cameron’s eyes widened, then she laughed. “Never mind.... forget you saw it.” She giggled a little more and kept writing.
Never mind? Forget I saw it? “Sanders,” I whispered and poked him. “Did you see that? Am I going crazy?”
He didn’t look up from his writing. “You are crazy if you think I’m going to fall for that. There is no mouse. Now, shush. I’m trying to finish my scene.”
“But you saw the sparks, didn’t you?”
Sanders had a slow, deep voice, so anything he said sounded sarcastic or condescending, even if he didn’t mean it to. “I saw my three hours of sleep and double espresso.”
SNAP!
A fist-sized red crystal appeared somewhere in the air and fell right on Sanders‘ desk. He couldn’t ignore this. “How did you do that?” He asked.
“I didn’t do that! That’s what I’m trying to tell you. First, these sparks, then a mouse, now this rock...”
When Cameron spotted the rock, her face contorted, like she was torn between being pleased with herself and terrified.
“Are you alright?” I asked her.
“Fine, Nicole. I’m fine.” She answered hurriedly while writing.
The rock vanished out of Sanders’ hand. He looked under his desk to see if it had fallen, but no. It was gone, just like the mouse. Cameron giggled.
“Hold it.” Sanders eyed Cameron. “Let me see what you’re writing.” He snatched her notebook before she could refuse and scanned the pages.
“No- wait. It’s- it’s not me!” Cameron stammered. What was she talking about?
“Hmm... It’s only talking about a sunrise... and now a country landscape... this guy- it doesn’t mention his name, yet. Ah, just as I thought. There’s a fire and a mouse, no, the mouse is actually...” His voice trailed off, but his eyes still went back and forth over the pages. “Oh, the guy’s name is Bar-”
A popping sound like someone had blown a bubble gum bubble as big as a house, then poked a hole in it filled the room.
“Barnabus Lansky.” Sung a deep Irish accent.
For a split second, I wondered if Mr. Yates had walked back into the room. But Mr. Yates does not have an Irish accent. We turned toward the voice. There, just as the sparks, the mouse, and the stone had appeared (only much larger than any of these) was a man in a green three piece suit, twirling his mustache. He had dark hair and freckles. A gold wrist watch hung out of his pocket. Cameron’s smile was so big, I thought her face might crack in half.
“He’s just like I imagined.” She sighed, happily. “All except the lederhosens.”
“But you forget.” Barnabus said wearily. “This is the first day-”
“This is the first day you decided to not wear lederhosens!” Cameron finished excitedly.
Sanders and I were too in shock to react yet. I kept blinking, wondering when this man would disappear. Sanders was making some sort of gagging noise. Suddenly, I remembered our last writing exercise.
“My writer’s block is gone.” I muttered to myself. “I know just what to write about.”
The three of them sat bent over their desks, waving their pens like magic wands over the paper. It was only the third day of Mr. Yates’ summer writing workshop, but I was frustrated that my writing couldn’t reach the level of the others’. Cameron, to my left, was probably whipping out some hilarious dramatic irony. She swung her feet impatiently because her pen couldn’t keep up with her imagination. I stared at my blank page. We were supposed to compose a scene in which something unexpected happened. How much more generic could you get? Something unexpected... wasn’t that all that happened in stories?
“Writer’s block?” Elaine offered a look of sympathy from across the semi-circle of desks. I nodded. Elaine was the shiest in our group. She hated reading her works aloud, but I couldn’t see why. Her work with adjectives was always brilliant. “Just start spitting out words.” She whispered. “They’ll take you somewhere.”
“Shhh! I can’t think when you’re talking so loud.” Sanders drawled sarcastically. “That is, if I wanted to think.”
I rolled my eyes. Sanders may have acted like he couldn’t do anything, but he had a bigger vocabulary than Webster. I think he tried to make up for the lack of boys in the workshop by adding extra gore to his stories.
“About eight more minutes.” Mr. Yates said, squinting at the clock. “Then we’ll hear what you guys came up with.”
I tried to take Elaine’s advice and wrote the first sentence that came into my head:
Bob didn’t expect this to happen.
With a groan of frustration, I scribbled out the sorry excuse for a sentence.
“I have to print out copies of our next exercise. I’ll be right back.” Mr. Yates walked out. Even though it was summer and he wore T-shirt and jeans, he still walked like a teacher. Maybe it was the authoritative, deliberate steps or the confidence with which he navigated the halls. I wondered if all teachers used a certain walk in school or if it was just at Anderson High School.
Elaine wandered to the window. She tugged at her blond hair and chewed her lip. I joined her. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s so nice outside.” She gazed at the wind bending the long grass behind the school. “See how sunny it is? And we’ve been sitting so long in here...”
“Elaine, really. You looked forward all month to this workshop. Why-”
“Shhh!” Sanders hissed at us. “Only six minutes left.”
I stuck my tongue out and turned my back to him.
“I need inspiration.” Elaine whispered, still staring out the window. “And if I happen to miss my turn for reading aloud, that wouldn’t be the end of the world...” She tore her gaze from outside and looked at me hopefully. “Will you cover for me? I’ll only be gone a few minutes.”
“What should I say?”
Elaine grabbed her cell-phone and stuffed it in her pocket. “Tell him I’ve gone to the bathroom or that my mom called me or... you’ll think of something. I promise I won’t stay too long.”
With that, she had slipped out of the room. I sighed and sat back in my chair, clicking my pen on my desk until Sanders told me to stop.
Click. Click.
“I asked you to stop.” He was really frustrated now. Maybe his character hadn’t died as dramatically as he had hoped.
But I had stopped clicking my pen. I held my empty hands up to show him.
Click-click. Click.
I turned to the only other person in the room. Cameron was still scratching away at her paper, so fast I could have sworn sparks were flying from her pen. My jaw dropped. Sparks were coming from her pen. Each time one appeared, a sharp clicking noise could be heard. They faded into ash and harmlessly drifted to the ground. Cameron could feel both Sanders’ and my stares. She slammed her hands over her paper, like she was afraid we would read it. The sparks stopped as soon as she took her pen off the page.
“What?” She asked accusingly. Her expression was hard to read. Had she seen the sparks? I just shook my head. Maybe it was just the sun shining on dust motes, but what about the clicking noise?
Before I had much time to wonder, their was a prolonged smacking sound, like someone knocking his tongue on the roof of his mouth. It came from under Cameron’s desk, so naturally that is where I looked. I stifled a squeal. A real, live, brown mouse scurried over Cameron’s shoes and then disappeared, vanished, poof. Like magicians do into clouds of smoke. Only the mouse did it without smoke.
Cameron jumped at my small scream. “There wasn’t a mouse under my chair, was there?” I nodded, speechless. Cameron’s eyes widened, then she laughed. “Never mind.... forget you saw it.” She giggled a little more and kept writing.
Never mind? Forget I saw it? “Sanders,” I whispered and poked him. “Did you see that? Am I going crazy?”
He didn’t look up from his writing. “You are crazy if you think I’m going to fall for that. There is no mouse. Now, shush. I’m trying to finish my scene.”
“But you saw the sparks, didn’t you?”
Sanders had a slow, deep voice, so anything he said sounded sarcastic or condescending, even if he didn’t mean it to. “I saw my three hours of sleep and double espresso.”
SNAP!
A fist-sized red crystal appeared somewhere in the air and fell right on Sanders‘ desk. He couldn’t ignore this. “How did you do that?” He asked.
“I didn’t do that! That’s what I’m trying to tell you. First, these sparks, then a mouse, now this rock...”
When Cameron spotted the rock, her face contorted, like she was torn between being pleased with herself and terrified.
“Are you alright?” I asked her.
“Fine, Nicole. I’m fine.” She answered hurriedly while writing.
The rock vanished out of Sanders’ hand. He looked under his desk to see if it had fallen, but no. It was gone, just like the mouse. Cameron giggled.
“Hold it.” Sanders eyed Cameron. “Let me see what you’re writing.” He snatched her notebook before she could refuse and scanned the pages.
“No- wait. It’s- it’s not me!” Cameron stammered. What was she talking about?
“Hmm... It’s only talking about a sunrise... and now a country landscape... this guy- it doesn’t mention his name, yet. Ah, just as I thought. There’s a fire and a mouse, no, the mouse is actually...” His voice trailed off, but his eyes still went back and forth over the pages. “Oh, the guy’s name is Bar-”
A popping sound like someone had blown a bubble gum bubble as big as a house, then poked a hole in it filled the room.
“Barnabus Lansky.” Sung a deep Irish accent.
For a split second, I wondered if Mr. Yates had walked back into the room. But Mr. Yates does not have an Irish accent. We turned toward the voice. There, just as the sparks, the mouse, and the stone had appeared (only much larger than any of these) was a man in a green three piece suit, twirling his mustache. He had dark hair and freckles. A gold wrist watch hung out of his pocket. Cameron’s smile was so big, I thought her face might crack in half.
“He’s just like I imagined.” She sighed, happily. “All except the lederhosens.”
“But you forget.” Barnabus said wearily. “This is the first day-”
“This is the first day you decided to not wear lederhosens!” Cameron finished excitedly.
Sanders and I were too in shock to react yet. I kept blinking, wondering when this man would disappear. Sanders was making some sort of gagging noise. Suddenly, I remembered our last writing exercise.
“My writer’s block is gone.” I muttered to myself. “I know just what to write about.”
Monday, August 5, 2013
SWC
Summer Writing Challenge:
Pick an object from your bedroom and describe it. Intensely describe it. Do not leave anything out. Color, texture, smell. What does it remind you of? What sound does it make if you drop it? Don't leave anything unsaid. Ask yourself if someone who has never seen this object can see exactly what your seeing.
Pick an object from your bedroom and describe it. Intensely describe it. Do not leave anything out. Color, texture, smell. What does it remind you of? What sound does it make if you drop it? Don't leave anything unsaid. Ask yourself if someone who has never seen this object can see exactly what your seeing.
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