The ALFINS Report

 Dear Friends,
Merry Christmas! Here is the promised first chapter of my story. It's still not perfect, but I hope you enjoy meeting these characters as much as I enjoyed creating them.
e. j. elliot

ALFINS report: Element Engagers
Dear Mr. Samuel Jenkins,
    I realize that this is not the report you were expecting from ALFINS I myself am even surprised at the results of my interview with the children. But after seeing Larke’s eyes light up when she told me about first engaging her power or Wendell actually running his hand through his hair and sighing, well, it became clear that the usually bare-fact report just wouldn’t give these kids justice.
    This is the story of three kids, each completely different. You must want a little background on them before you delve into this literary piece. That, at least, is a standard ALFINS procedure.
    Larke Anderson: Freshmen. Long brown hair and hazel eyes. Her GPA is average, but she really belongs on the stage. Her father (Miles) is in the army and her mother (Julia) is a nurse at the hospital where they live. She has twin younger brothers.
    Wendell Mickley: Freshmen. Very wise in the ways of mathematics and science. One sister (Emily). Parents (Raphael and Hannah) both work in the FBI.
    Terrence Bard: Freshmen. Extra curricular activities include choir and soccer. His father died two years after his birth, but his mother (Karen Bard-Clark) remarried. Terrence’s relationship with his stepdad is fine. His stepdad (Phillip Clark) is his father to him.
    The rest, I will let the story tell. I hope you will not feel like I have wasted your time. Larke helped me with some parts. She has quite the literary eye, you know. When we finish, she wanted to publish it as a children’s novel. Of course, that would be impossible for obvious reasons.
    I hope you understand. Thank you.
-Agent P.
ALFINS

Chapter One: Larke, Wendell, and Terrence
    Three freshmen were slumped various ways in their cold, hard desks. The clock ticked slowly and painfully. Each nine grader stared at the clock, willing it to move faster. As different as they may be, the same words were playing through all their minds: It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. Detention is always worst when you are innocent of crimes.
    That afternoon, a science experiment had exploded in room 234, the science lab. The three culprits (not the three aforementioned victims) had snuck into the room when the teacher had left for the bathroom. Armed with fire crackers, they successfully combusted moldy bread. The first to discover their mischief was Terrence Bard. It had been his science fair project and he stared at the remaining ashes in disbelief. Next, came Wendell Mickley. His love for solving anything from a complicated algebra equation to a mystery (especially one involving an explosion), was what caused him to observe the ruined science experiment. He picked through the ruins. Pieces of card board with burnt edges were all that was let of the display board. He looked up and noticed the smoke detector was covered. Terrence began furiously writing his observation for today by memory, but he couldn’t remember if the gatorade doused bread had grown any mold yet. Wendell turned back towards the debris. Moldy bread was splattered as far as the back windows. He found the plastic firecracker label. So that was how it was done. It smelled like his macaroni and cheese that he had left in his locker over the summer. A girl pinch her nose as she walked into the room. Larke never had any intentions of finding herself next to the two boys. She was dropping off a late assignment on her way to Drama rehearsal, sauntering and reciting as she went, when the seventh grade English teacher caught the three of them near the scene of the crime. He didn’t know these students personally and was callous to any excuse or plea as he wrote three detention slips. Teachers can be merciless if the wish, and this one most certainly did wish.
    They were the only students in the detention room, which only angered them more. Larke was prone to exaggeration like gray clouds were prone to raining. She imagined large bars around her desk and cobwebs in the corners. She was in the lowest dungeon of an evil lord’s castle. Rats had eaten the little food they had given her and no windows made the cell stuffy and damp. The fantasies made her feel a little better, but her inmates had their own form of entertainment.
    Wendell had counted the ceiling tiles, then found the square root of their quantity,  then multiplied that by pi, but got lost around the seventh decimal and stopped. Terrence had refused to do anything. He crossed his arms and sulked. How could he be blamed for the explosion? It had been his science experiment. He tapped one finger on the desk to an agonizingly slow beat, slower than the clock. Tap... tap....tap. He was missing a crucial choir practice. Tap. He would have to start over on his experiment. Tap. For kids like Terrence, “The fire of anger burned quietly inside them... too quiet. Until all the flames burst out at once.” At least, that is how Larke later put it. Tap... tap... He lifted his finger, but was paused mid-tap.
    “Would you please cease to rap the desk, you canker-blossom.” groaned Larke. She had been practicing different insults in her head for the teacher who had sent her here, and for each of her annoying inmates. She turned yet another page in The Book of Shakespearean Insults, kept with her at all times. This was an outrage. She was innocent of any crimes. In this dungeon, time dragged to infinity.
    Terrence rolled his eyes. Wendell worked geometry proofs. Larke mouthed her lines for the school play. She was even more excited for this particular performance because they were preforming Shakespeare. Many other high-schoolers complained that Shakespeare would be too hard, too boring, but Larke thought his old English was beautiful. Nothing would make her feel better right now than hopping on stage with her fellow actors and actresses. Time stretched to impossible lengths so that minutes where hours. One slightly-disheveled librarian who was on detention duty shuffled papers on her desk. Her glasses hung by a chain around her neck and the fan was always blowing around the pages of her book. She had never once looked up to see who was there. She didn’t want to be in the room any more than the students did.
    Then, a miracle. Someone knocked on the door. Every head swiveled in unison to the intruder. The door opened, revealing a young adult, perhaps in her twenties. She wore tight black jeans and some sort of uniform jacket. Terrence noticed a small A on the sleeve, with one side of it doubling as the body of a butterfly. Her dark hair was pulled back, out of her face and the red lipstick showed drastically against her fair skin. The impression was somewhere between a vampire and Snow White, but all fantastical impressions vanished when they saw her smile. It was a sympathetic and genuine smile.
    The librarian eyed the stranger skeptically. “Did you check in at the office?” she asked. The lady nodded and showed an admittance form as well as some sort of badge that the kids could not see. At the sight of the badge, the librarian started a little and said she had better talk to the administration. Larke thought it was highly irresponsible for her to leave these three defenseless students alone with... whoever that was.
    Terrence didn’t waste time when he could help it. He wanted to know who this person was. She seemed to have intimidated the librarian quite a bit. “Why are you here?” He asked.
    The lady smiled again and sat on the top of a desk. Her whole manner seemed laid back at casual, but Larke knew an actress when she saw one. The way her hand twitched and her legs swung rather fast revealed the stranger’s impatience. Wendell, too, noticed this. “I am here because you three are in acute danger.” Terrence was almost surprised that her voice did not carry any form of a foreign accent. Wendell dropped his pen at the words, “acute danger.”
    “My name is Trish Charlton. I work for... the Social Services-”
    “You do not look like you do.” Terrence, the skeptic, replied. What did this lady want? Trish pulled a cellphone from her pocket and handed it to him.
    “Call your parents. You’ll have an easier time hearing it from them. No use wasting time with me trying to explain things to you that you won’t believe anyway.”
    What in the world... Terrence wondered, but called anyway. After the first ring, his mom’s static-ized voice came through the speaker.
    “Hello?”
    “Mom? It’s Terrence.”
    “Oh, dear. Have they told you yet?” Her voice came in short, exasperated bursts. “They said we can’t come with you. I am so sorry. They said you will come back after you were safe. They won’t tell us who is endangering you-” Her voice cracked and he heard his mom sobbing. Her cries were muted when he heard his dad pick up the phone.
    “Son?”
    “Dad! What in the world is going on? Why is mom crying? Who is doing this?”
    “Whoa, Terrence. Slow down. Some government workers visited your mother and me. They explained that you are in danger and need to be taken to some secret base to be safe. Everything was verified. This is serious, Terrence.”
    Terrence’s face turned to stone. “Okay, dad.” He paused for a moment. “You’re not joking?” Terrence knew his parents would never joke like this, but it felt better to ask the question.
    “No. I’m not. They said we could see you again when they are sure you are safe.”
    “Who’s they? Why aren’t I safe? What is going on!” Terrence was getting heated, but recollected himself. Larke and Wendell looked from him to this Trish. What was going on? Why was Terrence so upset? “I am sure they will let us see each other soon, right?”
    Silence on the other end.
    “Dad?”
    “I love you, Terrence. Good-bye.” There was a click as his father hung up the phone. He handed the phone back to Trish and sat rigidly in the desk. Larke asked if she could call too and Trish said yes. Terrence didn’t listen to what she said or how she reacted to what her parents told her. He was totally engrossed with what his father had told him- or rather what he hadn’t. How could he not be safe? Who was going to hurt him? More importantly, who was Trish really working for? Was she really a government worker? What did he have in common with these two other students that would endanger them all? He made a wild guess that it wasn’t detention. 
    Even with all the questions whirring through his mind, Terrence’s face was unchanged. Wendell took the phone with shaking hand. Something terrible must have happened to have shaken these teens so much. He dialed his home phone, but knew his parents wouldn’t be home to answer it; they were working now. His sister answered.
    “Hi, Emily.”
    “Wendell? Is that you? Why haven’t you come home? Have they taken you already?” Emily sounded like she was trying to keep it together, but it wasn’t working.
    “Are you okay? What are you talking about?” Wendell shot back even more questions.
    Emily slowed down and took a couple deep breaths. “Mom and dad called. They said you were going away for a while. They said someone was trying to kill you... or -or worse, but that I shouldn’t tell you otherwise you will freak out-”
    “Kill me?! Emily! What is going on, really?” There was a pause.
    “I don’t know. Wen, I have to hang up now. We’ll see each other soon.” Emily had no idea if she would see her brother in three weeks or three years. She hung up the phone with difficulty, leaving Wendell with even more questions. Trish said they could all call again later tonight.
    “... After we get you settled in the facility.” She slipped the phone into her back pocket and started towards the door. Seeing that no one was following her, she turned around at the door. “We have some clothes and hygiene products for you at the facility and dorms where you will be staying. Depending on how long you have to stay, we’ll order some of the curriculum your school uses and teach you ourselves. I’m sorry we were not able to get any of the belonging from your houses. I have a car waiting in the front of the building. Follow me.”
    Wendell lingered by his papers and grabbed the one he had just been working on as well as a pen. Then he hurried to catch up with Trish’s long, brisk strides. Larke clutched at her Book of Shakespearean Insults and marched forward. Terrence followed her, bringing only his jacket because the weather was chilly.
    Trish led them all to an RV. “It’s a very long way to where we’re going.” She explained. The RV looked very mundane and inconspicuous. It was beige with darkened windows and just enough scrapes and dents to look used. Single file, they boarded and found someone already in the driver’s seat. His hair was as dark as Trish’s, but his smile was bigger and his voice was louder. “It will be six hours to the facility, if the traffic is good. I’m Alex Davidson, by the way. Glad we were able to recover all of you in one piece.”
    “One piece!” Larke squeaked.
    Trish sat in the passenger’s seat and bent over some paper work. The inside of the RV was much like the outside. Leather couches lined part of the sides and the bathroom was beyond them. A TV was mounted on the wall and a mini fridge stood below it. The RV did not resemble in any way something used for government workers. It looked casual, so the kids tried to act casually too and settled into the couches.
    The first twenty minutes were rode in silence. The kids exchanged awkward glances. Would no one bother to explain what was going on? Trish tuned the radio and Bach’s Well-tempered Clavier lilted them all to the sway of the car. Wendell half-closed his eyes and mused. To figure this out, he thought, he would need to know what he had in common with the two other students. What were their names again? Larke and Terrence? Well, whoever they were, they must have something alike with him, something that would put them all in danger. However, no matter what possibility he played through, it always came out as a dead end. He refused to ask. He wanted to find the answer himself. Larke and Terrence were too busy being angry at Trish and Kip for not explaining to ask. How dare these supposed government agents force them away from their normal lives- and not even give a decent reason why!
    Kip was the first to speak once they had traveled a ways on the highway. “Trish, go wash your face. This disguise is way too exaggerated.” Trish shrugged and walked into the bathroom. The kids looked at each other, wondering what Kip meant. They didn’t have to wonder long. After about five minutes, Trish walked out again, black wig in hand. Her face was red from being scrubbed so hard and the kids could now tell that her skin was considerably tanner than when they first met, but not enough to be asian. Her hair was actually a medium brown and wavy. Her make-up was more natural, now. The kids stared (well, really Larke gaped, Wendell wondered, and Terrence eyed) at the transformation. This new Trish walked to a mini fridge, staying in perfect balance as the car rolled over large bumps, and pulled out four cokes. After handing one to each freshmen, she popped hers open and sat down next to Larke.
    “Why didst thou disguise thyself so, fair maiden?” inquired Larke. The costume had impressed her.  I must take this opportunity to explain that she did not always speak in half-formed old english. She only fell into lapses of it- especially when she was upset.
    Trish shrugged. “Practice mostly, and the Captain told me to. I don’t really know why or what made him think that that particular make-up would help, but we don’t question the Captain.”
    Wendell wrinkled his forehead in exasperation. Now there was a captain? He looked at two other equally confused faces.
    “I think you should start explaining.” Terrence’s tone made it sound like a command. “And I’d appreciate you starting at the beginning.”
    Trish nodded good-naturedly and began. “I work for a secret government corporation called ALFINS That’s an acronym for Abnormal Life Forms In Natural State.”
    “I don’t get it. What do you mean by abnormal life forms? And what is natural state?” Wendell took a swig of coke to sooth his forming headache. He was ready for some answers now.
    “It means we help people who have differences that can’t be explained by science and then let them have a relatively normal life, instead of being locked away in a lab.”
    “Is ALFINS what the little A on your jacket is for?”
     Trish raised her eyebrows in approval. “Yes it’s our trademark. But of course, there are always the bad guys we have to deal with...” Her eyes clouded for a moment and Kip shouted from the driver’s seat,
    “Oh, man. Those people are ruthless. It is mostly this group of crazy scientists who always are kidnapping the people we try to rescue. ALFINS doesn’t know what they call themselves, so we just call them The Enemy. We’re kind of short on creativity. Oh yeah, and we call our headquarters The Facility.” He laughed a little, shaking his head.
    Larke thought about it all for a moment. If ALFINS helped abnormal life forms... what did that make her? And Wendell? And Terrence? She cleared her throat,
    “Doth thou meanest to say that these two lads and I are... abnormal?”
    Trish smiled sympathetically. “It’s a cruel word, isn’t it? When you three were born, the doctors saw something different in your genetics. You see, most hospitals in the United States of America have to run certain tests for ALFINS Mostly on genetic make up and blood types et cetera. If they see that the baby is.... different, then they contact ALFINS and we wait until the Enemy finds out about you and then take you to the facility. Anyway, you all were a perfectly healthy babies, but you had an extra chromosome that no one had seen before. The doctors called us immediately, but never told your parents. That, too, is an ALFINS procedure. We took some blood samples and sent you home with your families. We had seen a few cases like yours before. Through much research, we deduced that you three each control one of the ancient Greek elements. Do you know what those are?”
    “Earth, wind, fire, and water.” Larke recited proudly.
    “Hang on a minute.” Wendell ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. He always did this while figuring a problem. It left his blonde hair in constant disarray. Larke thought he looked like Einstein and if she ever told Wendell, I’m sure he would have taken it as a great complement. “By control, do you mean manipulate against the laws of science or resistant to or create that particular matter... I don’t get this. It- it just can not be possible. It makes absolutely no sense!”
    “Actually, we’re not entirely sure about it either. We were hoping that we could help you simulate your powers.”
    There was a pause and each of the children mulled over what they had just been told. They all felt a little scared and a little excited. Finally, Terrence asked,
    “Which of us controls what?”
    The car bounced over a pot hole and the entire crew hopped up and down, but no one spilled their soda.
    “Good question. You control water. Wendell, fire, and Larke, you control wind.”
    “Sweet! Can I, like, fly or something?”
    Everyone turned, surprised, to Larke. It was the first time everyone but Terrence had heard her speak modern English. 
    “I really don’t know. A lot will have to be figured out when we get to the facility. For now, try to relax. I know all of this sounds crazy. It is a lot to take in. Until we reach the facility, you can have the food in the fridge when you get hungry. And there’s an old TV and DVD player in the back if you find a movie you like.” Trish opened a cabinet above the couches and pulled out Pride and Prejudice. Larke sat with Kip and stared out the window. She watched fields and hills and cars sail passed. She didn’t really feel like all this had really happened. Maybe she would fall asleep now and wake up in bed. Perhaps it was all a dream. But when you wonder if it is a dream, that is a sure sign that you are really awake. She curled up on the big chair and laid her head on the arm rest. She let the hum of the RV lull her to sleep.
    Wendell and Terrence didn’t have it so easy. They had to wait hours, sometimes watching a movie, every once and a while going to the bathroom.
    “What do you think?” Terrence asked Wendell in a whisper.
    “About which part? The fact that we never knew we had powers before? That we are being ripped away from friends, from family for who know how long? That we’re being taken to a secret facility?” Wendell extended his hand. “I know I’ve seen you at school before, but I don’t think we’ve officially met. I’m Wendell.”
    Terrence shook his hand. “It’s odd how we never really met before, don’t you think?”
    Wendell nodded. “Do you know the girl? I think Trish called her Larke.”
    Terrence laughed softly. “Yes, I know her. We both acted in a musical together once. She’s quite a character. She forgot one of her props and improved the whole scene. Eventually, she ordered one of the actors (playing as her character’s servant) to fetch it for her. You should have been there! No one could have guessed the whole thing was made up.”
    Wendell and Terrence’s conversation went on much like that. Terrence discovered Wendell’s passion for solving problems, that he had a younger sister and was on the Math league. He himself shared his dreams for earning a degree in Music education and about Patty, his sheepdog. It felt good to just talk and try to act normal.
     Larke woke once when they stopped for gas and Trish took a turn driving. She stretched and decided to walk around to parking lot a bit before they started again. There was only one other car. A woman was putting some sacks of food in the car. She looked about in her thirties with very sad eyes. Larke watched her drop one on the asphalt. Apples, bananas, and brownie mix spilled out. The woman groaned and bent down to pick the spilled groceries. Larke jogged over to help. However, as soon as she bent down, she felt a cold hand grip her hair and a harsh whisper crackled right next to her ear,
    “Don’t move, girl. I’ve got a gun in my hand. I want you to-” The hand released her abruptly and Larke noticed a police car pulling up next to a stall. The officer stepped out casually and unscrewed the cap to his gas tank. Larke turned to see the woman who had grabbed her, but she was already in the car and starting the ignition. She drove away without gathering the rest of her groceries. Thoroughly shaken, Larke jogged back to the RV where Trish was already turning the key.
    After telling everyone what happened, she thumbed through her book and mouthed something to herself, probably an insult for the mysterious woman.
    “Who was it? Was she working for The Enemy?”
    “Probably.” Kip answered from the couch. “They’re always very cautious. That’s why she drove away at the first sight of the police.”
    “They are catching up with us.” Trish said, gravely. “We have to hurry. It’s a good thing that cop showed up.” She pulled out of the gas station and sped along the freeway.
    Terrence sat beside Kip. “How much longer until we reach the facility?”
    Kip looked at the ceiling. “Let’s see... about an hour, if traffic is good.”
    “Aren’t you afraid someone will follow us there?”
    Kip laughed a booming, good-natured laugh. “The Enemy wouldn’t dare. The facility is way too heavily guarded. Some of our technology hasn’t even been discovered by people working outside of ALFINS”
    Terrence let out a small breath of relief. “What time is it now?”
    Kip glanced at his watch. “Oh, almost seven.”
    Terrence stretched out on the floor, but he couldn’t become tired. Maybe it was caffeine from the coke. He tapped his finger on the floor, mentally running through choir songs. He would never get to perform at his concert now. He wouldn’t see his parents for a while... how long would he have to stay at the facility? Terrence ignored what Trish had said about the Greek elements. He did not believe a word of it. Most likely, she was just joking to take their minds off how dangerous the situation was.
    Larke on the other hand was fantasizing all the ways she could use wind, manipulate it, created small tornadoes, run an entire wind mill plant! The possibilities were unending. Maybe I will join the Olympics, she thought. I’d be everyone on the long jump.
    Wendell took a turn sitting in the front. He put his face in front of the air conditioner and let the cold air run over him, fighting the urge to run his fingers through his hair. Nothing made sense! There was a chromosome.... and a captain... and somehow he fit into all this? It was just too much too process.
    An hour came and went. Each of the children were no closer to guessing what lay in store for them with ALFINS. First, they went through a number code-lock gates. Then they found another worker who came in the RV and gave them each a retinas scan. Kip, Trish, and the three freshmen unboarded the RV, which was driven away by a different ALFINS worker.
    As far as the kids could tell, the facility was located in a woods. Trees, thickening as they furthered, stood on the outskirts. The grass was scarce and the dirt was very dry. The facility itself was one huge concrete building, very square and virtually windowless. It looked like a giant piece of cake: a gray square cake. There was one front door and one back door. Telephone wires ran along the back and a small pathway led them to the door. Here, Trish held up a grey card to the side of the door. There was a small beep and a click as the the door unlocked. Everyone shuffled inside.
    They immediately found themselves in a large, busy forum. The inside was much like the outside- boxy and grey. The only apparent decoration was an arched door way with these word panted above it: Our Mission: To rescue, protect, and stabilize.
    The people walking to and fro all wore the same black ALFINS jacket as Trish and Kip. Some held clip boards or briefcases. Others laughed like students on their way to class. Everyone had obviously had an important purpose.
    Kip had to say good-bye here. He had other duties to which he had to attend. “But I’ll see you around.” He said with a toothy grin. Trish led them down a less busy hallway and then to a pair of red elevators.The new building filled with important-looking strangers intimidated the kids. Larke gripped her book so hard, her knuckles turned white. Trish pushed the button marked Sub 3 level and the elevator whooshed down. The children glanced at each other nervously. The next hallway was narrow with many wooden doors on either side. Each  was marked with a letter and a number. A 1, A 2, B 5, and so on. Trish presented a single key and unlocked one of the doors. It was marked D 2. Inside was a twin bed and dresser.
    “This is your room, Larke. Make yourself comfortable while I show the boys to their room.” She continued down the hallway, leaving Larke alone in her new dorm. She flipped the switch and a hard yellow light immediately flooded the room. The bedspread was a thin navy quilt and the head board was simple as well. The dresser was filled with all the clothes she would need for her stay. On the top of the pile of shirts was a grey T shirt. On the back, it said ALFINS in bold, black letters. On the front left corner, there was a small symbol: five purple lines, each one a bit shorter that the one above it. It seemed to be some sort of representation of a tornado. Larke was glad for the excuse to change out of her school uniform. She put on the shirt and found a pair of grey sweatpants to go with them. There was a small door on the other side of the dorm, which led to a bathroom. Larke took out her stiff braids and brushed her hair. The facility may not have been home, but it was adequate. She wondered what the boys’ dorm was similar to hers. She looked around and made a few adjustments. She dragged the large wooden box that had been at the foot of them bed near the head board and put a lamp on top of it. It would be easier to read after lights out that way. She set her book on it as well. She placed the pillow on top of the covers instead of underneath them. Other than that, there wasn’t much to change, but Larke felt like the small changes she made created a home-like atmosphere. There was a knocking sound and Trish’s head popped out from behind the door.
    “I see you already changed. Good. Would you like to see where the boys are staying?” Larke nodded and followed Trish down the hallway. She stopped in front of the door marked D9 and knocked. A muted “come in” was heard from behind. Wendell and Terrence’s room was set up much like Larke’s. There was a bunk-bed on one side and a larger dresser on the other. They had a bathroom, like Larke, and a wooden box, too. She notice the boy’s were now dressed in similar outfits. The only difference was the symbol in the corner of their shirts. Wendell’s was a small orange oval inside of a slightly larger red one and Terrence’s was a few blue waves. Fire and Water. Larke believed this was real.
    Trish’s phone began to ring. “Hello?” She listened to the voice on the other end for a moment, then replied, “Yes, sir. Thank you.” Replacing the phone in her pocket, she stepped out of the door. “I have to go. I’ll be back in a little while. Stay on this floor and I’ll give you a tour of the facility when I get back, okay?” She rushed off without waiting for their reply.
    Larke was a little upset to be left behind. She was looking forward to exploring the building and getting more of her questions answered. The boys looked at each other, wondering what to do.
    “I guess we’re going to be spending some time together for quiet a while. Do you think we are the only kids here?” Larke would take forced conversation over silence any day.
    “I- I don’t know.” Terrence shrugged. “What are we going to to all day? Sit here and twiddle our thumbs?”
    Larke sat with her back to the dresser, cross-legged. Wendell collapsed on the bed, though he wasn’t tired. He was just frustrated. “Work on figuring out how to engage our powers, I guess. Then later, school.”
    “I’m so excited!” Larke smiled. “It’s such an adventure! I’ve acted in stories so many times, it’s scary to think that this one is real. I wonder what it will feel like to control wind. No offense, but I’m glad I’m not controlling fire or water. Wind is more dramatic.” She uttered the last words as if she were in Drama class. Wendell wondered if Larke ever took anything seriously (One thing I know she does for sure and that is coffee).
    “Do you guys really believe what Trish said about us and the ancient Greek elements?” Terrence leaned against the wall, arms folded.
    Wendell sat up and exchanged a confused look with Larke. “Of course. Don’t you? Why would she lie to us anyway?”
    “Don’t you want to control water?” Larke asked. “Don’t you think it would be at least a little fun?”
    “Well, she wants us to think that this is a big game!” Terrence’s face turned red. “And that’s exactly what you two are doing! Do you think this is some sort of training center for special kids? No, it’s a prison! We aren’t allowed to leave. Larke was almost kidnapped and you don’t even realize the danger we’re in! You are acting like staying here will be fun. It won’t be fun, it will be torture. We’re stuck here with a bunch of strangers. We won’t see our parents, our friends... and all you are thinking about is using some sort of imaginary power?”
    Larke couldn’t believe what Terrence had just said. Could she help it if she was trying to make the best of the situation? “You are not worth another word, Terrence Bard, else I’d call you knave!” She spat at him and stormed out of the room. Her wrath, Terrence could take. Someone as angry as he was no burden, but Wendell’s crumpled face hurt deeply. The blonde-haired boy walked out of the room too, leaving Terrence alone with his misery.
    He kicked the wall. Why had he just said that? He couldn’t have these kids angry at him from there first day at the facility. He climbed to the top of his bunk and sat cross-legged, chin on fist, elbow on knee. He blinked hard to somehow clear his thoughts. He was angry... but who was he really angry at? Maybe ALFINS for taking him away from from the life he enjoyed? Perhaps his parents for just letting him go? Maybe even Wendell and Larke for not being as frustrated as he? No, those weren’t the real reasons. If he really thought about it, Terrence realized he was upset with himself for being abnormal. A freak. Somehow so different from all other human beings that he must be removed from society. Could people like that really exist? No, was the answer he decided on. There must be another explanation.
    Larke rummaged through all her dressers looking for pen and paper. She always felt better writing. As she searched, she thought about what Terrence had said. Could it be that Trish was lying to them? Why would she do that?  Was she acting like a baby for thinking only of the adventure it would be to work at ALFINS? Larke threw herself on the bed and wept. She had been so selfish. Her parents were probably sick with worry. Her mom would be knitting because doing something with her hands always calmed her down. Her dad might be trying to concentrate on work and blinking away tears. Tabitha, her goldfish would probably starve to death because Larke hadn’t told her parents that she moved the fish bowl to her closet. And Mr. Colten, her directer for the school play- what would he do with her gone? Terrence was right. It would be miserable here, knowing that life was spinning on without her. She was stuck in the vacuous box call the facility.
    Wendell explored the hall, giving Terrence some time to cool down. He didn’t know what to think about his outburst, but Larke sure got upset. He hoped their whole stay was going to be like this. Looking further down the hallway, he was soon disappointed to only discovered more and more doors. D 10, E 1, E 2 and on and on. It turned to the right at door F 3 and continued even further, but Wendell decided not to go that far. Because of how the door labels were arranged, he knew he would never be lost. He did not want to be caught wandering away when Trish came back so, he turned back towards his room. He heard the elevator ding and the doors slide open. Trish stepped out and though her stride was still long and brisk, Wendell could see signs of fatigue showing through. Time to go to bed now, he thought and walking into his dorm.
    Trish walked into Larke’s room; the door had been left open. Larke had finished crying and was left feeling quite thirsty. Trish sat on the bed next to her. “It’s been a long day for both of us, huh?”
    Larke shrugged, although she though “long day” was quite an understatement.
“It’s pretty late now, isn’t it?” She asked, pushing her hair away from her face.
    “Nine fifteen. I think it’s a little late for that tour. Sorry it took me so long to get back down to you guys. I think the best think now is for you guys to get some rest.” Larke nodded slowly. She opened her mouth to say something then shut it again.
    “What is it?” Trish asked
    Larke ducked her head, a little embarrassed. “I was just wondering if we could- I mean, could I have a drink?”
    Trish laughed softly. “Yes, I’m sure that would be fine. How does hot chocolate sound?”
    “Perfect!”
    “Good.” She said getting up. “I’ll go get the boys, then I’ll take you all to the kitchen.”
    The kitchen was on the first level. Terrence walked in silence, too chagrinned to speak again. Wendell and Larke comforted their weary minds by telling stories of all the times they had hot chocolate.
    “We were walking in  the woods behind my grandfather’s farm. It was just my sister and I, and we were lost. We figured if we just kept walking in one direction, we’d at least get away from the bears and wolves and things. We were really little and thought those kinds of animals would be in the woods. It was getting dark and my sister was crying, be we kept walking. Finally, we found our way out of the woods- boy was it cold!- and walked right up to a highway. The street still stretched on ahead of us, until we spotted a snack shack. It was still open. I didn’t really think about how odd it was to find a snack shack out there then. I asked the lady working there if she had a phone. We told her the whole story and she let us come in and call our parents. My sister was still crying so hard, so the lady gave us some hot chocolate!”
    Larke smiled. “Wow! How old were you?”
    “Six or seven. My sister was five.”
    “I was in a play once,” Larke started, “where a character gave me a mug of hot chocolate, but the mug was going to empty. I was supposed to just pretend I was drink some, but when they handed me the mug, it was steaming with real hot chocolate! I blew on it and still burnt my tongue. I lisped the rest of that act. I never did find out why there was hot chocolate in there.”
    Terrence wondered if he should join in the conversation, but he still felt too embarrassed.
    “Here we are!” Trish announced. She had led them down many hallways (how anyone could remember where to go through this labyrinth, the children had to wonder) and in front of a door marked The Kitchen. She brought out the same key that she had unlocked the dorms and used it to unlock this new door. All the doors must had the same lock, Wendell induced.
    The kids sat at a small table. There were a few workers putting away dishes inside, but didn’t pay any attention to them. There were large stainless steel refrigerators and freezers and sinks twice as wide and deep as the one’s in their houses. There were many cabinets filled with bowls, plates, trays, silverware and napkins- anything you might find in the kitchen of a school. It smelled like dish soap- just breathing the air made you feel clean. Trish had gone to one side of the kitchen, leaving the three of them at the other. When she returned, there were three mugs of steaming hot chocolate. Terrence wrapped his fingers around his mug, allowing the warmth to spread through his hands. He blew on the steaming liquid and timidly sipped. He sighed with contentment as the drink’s heat almost burnt his tongue.
    “The cafeteria is on the other side of that wall.” Trish explained. Larke was glad she didn’t really possess the vampire-like appearance she had thought when Larke first saw her. No vampire could have that genuine of a smile. Kip, too had seemed like a fun-loving, easy-going guy. She hoped everyone at ALFINS was like this. Trish went on to say that all the workers live here and have there meals in the cafeteria. They only left on vacations or when they were sent of special missions- “Like when I had to retrieve you three from school.” There was a library on the second floor, but most of the books would be boring to the them, she said. Things like data, field reports, reference sheets and ALFINS procedures. Also on that floor was offices for some of the ALFINS workers, the one’s who cataloged ALFINS.’s progress, budget, The Enemy’s movements, and of course the workers like me who write the reports on ALFINS.’s projects for the government.
    The children tried to remember all that Trish was telling them, but in all honesty, they were exhausted. When each had finished their hot chocolate, Trish led them down to their dorms and said good-night. “I guess we will try calling your parents again in the morning.” Larke lay down and stared at the ceiling until she couldn’t keep her eyes open any more and fell asleep. The boys crawled into their bunks, but Terrence couldn’t stop his mind from whirring. He lay on top of his covers.
    The day had just been too crazy. He thought about ALFINS. and the dangerous Enemy that lurked beyond it’s concrete walls. Was ALFINS really safe, though? Perhaps they were the real enemy and were lying about saving the three of them from being lab experiments. In the darkness of his dorm, without his eyes to reassure him, Terrence’s gross imagination grew until he was in a box, not a bunk and he was all alone. He had been kidnapped and brought to this place of false security where cruel scientists are giving you cocoa one day, and drawing blood from you the next. Terrence knew he could end his fears if he checked the door. If it was locked, then he really was the prisoner of his fantasies, but it it was open then he would know that this terror was only the result of fatigue.
    Climbing down from the bunk, he ran to the door and tugged on the handle. The door opened silently, revealing a dimly lit corridor. Terrence exhaled and shut the door. He trudged back to his bed and lay his head on the pillow. He just needed to stop thinking. With his mind finally at rest, he could sleep, and such a deep sleep it was.

Dear Readers,
I must say that for the entire month of November, I will not be blogging. Instead, I will be working on a project for National Novel Writing Month. This is a program in which writers young and old all across America write a 50,000 word novel in one month (that is approximately 1,667 words per day). Since this will keep my creativity occupied enough, I will pause this blog until December when I will post some excerpts.
Thank you all.
e. j. elliot

Modern American Armor

In a land where donning plumed helmets and shields and brandishing swords isn't socially acceptable and rescuing a maiden in distress in considered sexist, a girl has to wonder how she is to survive. The solution: modern American armor. So well disguised, this armor is undetectable to all except the wearer. For those of you who are questioning my sanity (or at the very least, wondering if my O.A.I.D. is acting up), I shall describe to you my self-made modern American armor.

First, my hat. Black, as to accommodate any outfit. The most useful aspect of this hat is to keep people from noticing my messy hair. Just tie it back, put on my hat and viola! No one can tell that I did not wash my hair that morning. Also, if you happened to by fighting a baby dragon, whose fire-breathing skills are minimal, and you didn't have a shield on you and the baby dragon flew over your head and blasted it's very weak fire at you- then just perhaps the flame would hit your hat. You could then take your hat off and avoid having a scorched scalp.
That is the first piece of my modern American armor.

Second, a hoodie. This is very versatile. If you were transported to a magical land in eternal winter (hey, it's happened before!), then a hoodie is very useful. If this land somehow abruptly changed to a dry, arid summer, then take the hoodie off and use it as a basket by tying up the ends. The possibilities never end with this piece of armor. Always keep one handy.

Next, a pen and notebook. It helps keep clues and suspects in order when solving a mystery. You can write down appointment reminders and positive reinforcement in it (you can do it EJ!).  When you are bored, you can doodle or write in it. If you are about to die, you can write your last will and testimony in it. I always feel more prepared with this piece of armor.

Fourth (and this is a must have), M&Ms. Preferably the mini kind that come in those cylinder shaped cases that make the really annoying yet irresistible popping noise. If one wants to survive this crazy world, you first need energy. And what better way to get this energy than chocolate? (The answer: coffee, but that's beside the point). Having M&Ms handy boosts my confidence in any situation.

Lastly, a friend. Frodo had Sam. Jim Hawkins had Dr. Livsay. Chuck Noland had Wilson. If you are to have an adventure, bring a friend.

Thus concludes the synopsis of my armor.

Raindrips

I could begin by writing very poetically about rain. I could give it a hundred metaphors and a hundred more personifications, but it is enough to say that I absolutely love rain. Maybe even more than sunshine. It's like the clouds decided to let their long, condensed fingers fall gracefully to the earth and-
Stop! I said I wouldn't torture you by going into all that, and I will hold to that promise.
All this to say, it should be of no surprise that I was sitting, listening to the rain. I had hoped to hear the relaxing raindrops hit the deck.
Drop. Drop. Drop.
And then faster as the rainstorm intensified.
Drrrrropopopopop. Drrrrropopopopopopop.
However I was dismayed. The more I listened, the more I realized that what was falling in my back yard did not drop. There was no doubt about it. This rain was as odd as on off-key marching band (oh, no! A simile!). I listen harder: Drip. Drip. Drip. These were not raindrops, they were raindrips! What did that mean? Raindrips? What should I do? I had never heard of raindrips before. I mused until the rain stopped. Then, feeling too poetical than what was good for me, I observed the puddles scattered about my backyard. The water looked like regular water. It smelled the same, felt the same- it even tasted the same! After thinking about it, I decided that no one would really care whether rain dropped or dripped if it was all the same in the end. However, it was a pleasant change.
Now I had better do some geometry homework before I become completely lost in the complex and wonderful land of poetics, alliterations, personifications, and... oh, never mind. I'll just bring a map.

Right as in Correct

Right.
As in correct.
As in sound.
Reasonable.
Rational.
Right.
As in not wrong. Boy, do I hate being wrong.
       I like to be right. I like to know that I know the answer. In class, I'll mostly only raise my hand if I know the answer is right. If I don't know, I'll tell the answer as a question: "Is it forty-two?" I have a teacher who will say, "No, I'm the one who asked the question. We aren't playing jeopardy." But I want to know it's the right answer before I claim it as that. I want to know that what I'm speaking is truth, even if it's the solution to an algebra equation. It's not so much the fear of being corrected that holds me back. Being corrected is being told the right answer- so you can know the right answer the next time someone asks you.
       But that terrible moment of disappointment when the teacher (or whomever the ask-er happens to be) gazes down condescendingly at you with those unforgiving eyes and utters that accursed word: "Incorrect." The onlookers gasp in horror at what you just did. You gave a wrong answer. You lied. How could you? Red-faced, you wish you could disappear. Maybe you'll become a hermit while the rest of the world chants poems that will ring throughout history of your infamous mistake.
       Okay, maybe it isn't as bad as all that, but do you get my point? No matter how many times adults (and peers) have told me it's alright to be wrong sometimes, I still don't like it. Being wrong is a fear I hope to conquer.

Rules for Adapted Blitzball

1) Split all players into two even teams- any number of players.

2) Mark boundaries for playing area (soccer field works well). Mark two goals, one on each side of the field. Each team will have one goal in which they try to score.

3) Boundaries are usually very general. Ball and players may go out of boundaries or around goals without being penalized.

4) No goalie. You may position players however you like, but there isn't a designated goalie.

5) One team will start with the ball in the opposite goal in which they are trying to score.

6) Players may run or pass ball until it reaches the goal or is taken by other team. To run the ball, players may carry it with one or two hands, but may not kick or punt. To pass, both the passer and receiver must use their hands. A ball may be dropped, then picked up by either team.

7) Ball can be stopped by opposing team in one or more ways:
    a) Tag a person with the ball. They must now stop where they have been tagged and throw ball to a team mate.
    b) Intercept a throw.
    c) Pick up a dropped ball.

8) Once a goal is scored, the ball is passed to a member of the non-scoring team. They must start in the goal and then run or pass the ball.

9) Game never ends. No time limit or certain number of goals required to be made. Just play.

Do Nots (Every game has them)

Tackling

Spitting

Excessive Celebration

Grab a ball out of players hands

Not have fun

Use a medicine ball

Remember! For those of you who have read A Separate Peace and are thinking that this is nothing like Blitzball, I never said this was Blitzball. This is Adapted Blitzball.

A special thank you to the 2011 eight grade class at Veritas Classical Academy for playing this game and to Ms. Lorenc, without whom we would never have played it. Also to John Knowles and his creative mind.

Romans 6:23

       He comes to the street everyday, calling the name. His eyes are filled with wisdom and compassion. His white robe shines brighter than the sun.  He waits everyday for someone to listen and answer. He calls out to everyone as they hustle along. Most tune out his fervent cries asking for someone to work for him. They rush by, too busy with their own lives.
       On the same street, another man stalks the people going by. Black cloak pulled across his shoulders, he paces the street, whispering in the ears of everyone who lets him. The hood is pulled far over his face, concealing the scars and sneer. But those those blood red eyes are unmistakable.
        A blind girl stumbles down that very street. She is pushed around by the crowd of people, looking for someone to heal her. She wants so badly to see again. The man cloaked in black makes a beeline for her. He puts one hand on her shoulder and another on her arm and pulls her away gently. He whispers her name,
       "Abby, Abby, come with me."
       Unable to see the red eyes staring at her, Abby cocks her head to the side, staining to listen above the din to her new guide. "Who are you? Can you help me see?"
       The man is overjoyed with the lies he knows she will believe. "I have many names. Call me Master. Yes, precious one. Yes, I will make you see. Come with me." He leads her away from the street, away from the man in shining robes, to an alley where nobody ever goes. Abby follows, without question. She can't see the crooked dagger hidden in the folds of his cloak. She can't see the malice-filled, red eyes.
       "Master, how will you heal me?" she asks.
       "With these." The man answers, slipping handcuffs around her wrists. The click of the lock echoes off the damp walls of the alley. "And these." Two more chains are placed around Abby's ankles. She stiffens.
       "Why can't I see now?" The cuffs cut into her skin. Abby is disappointed. Master wasn't any help. But he had called her precious... She had hoped he really cared about her. Now she wasn't so sure.
       "Because you will never see!" cried the man. He gleefully watched the anger and frustration and despair contort her face. "And you will never see because you are worthless." Abby began to cry. The black-cloaked man chuckled with delight. "And now you will work for me," he concluded.
       "How could I ever work for you? I can't see." Abby didn't want to work for this Master, but how could she refuse when she didn't even know which way to run from him? Besides, she was chained. Maybe it would just be easier to serve him. The sound of metal scraping metal reverberated. Abby flinched as she felt something cold and sharp against her neck. Master pressed the dagger close.
       "Why are you doing this?" Abby sobbed.
       "You work for me," snarled Master. "My wages are pain, cruelty, and-" he licked his lips- "death."
       Suddenly, the alley was filled with a bright light. Abby heard Master scream in terror. "No!" He cried. "She's mine! She gave herself to me!" There was a clang as the dagger dropped out of his hand.
       "Abby," called out a clear, strong voice. Abby wondered who could possibly be her rescuer. "Who is this who binds you?"
       "He tells me his name is Master." Abby answered in a trembling voice.
       "Because it is!" squeaked the man desperately. He was shielding his eyes with his hands from the brilliant light.
       "Deceiver!" rebuked the voice. "Your name is Tempter and I command you to leave."
       "You cannot order me to leave," the man howled, although he was already slinking his way along the alley's wall.
       "In my name,  I command you to depart from this place." His voice was like thunder. Abby stood shaking, wishing she could see what terrible power was before her. Tempter uttered a piercing caterwaul that diminished as quickly as in began. Abby felt the chains on her hands and ankles disintegrate.
        "What- who are you?" She managed and shrunk away because she was afraid this man would send her away like he did to Tempter. What she could not see, was that this was the very man who called out for people on the street where Tempter had ensnared her. He looked at her shivering form sadly and sympathetically. He knew how it felt to be forsaken.
       "My name is Christ. I have come to free you and give you life."
       "But why would you give me anything?" She asked. "I've never worked for you."
       Christ smiled. "The life I give you is not a payment, it's a gift." He stooped down to pick up the fallen dagger. He took the blade and cut his own palm. Blood oozed from his hand. He walked closer to Abby and put a hand on her shoulder. Squeezing his wounded hand into a fist, he let the blood drop onto each of her eyes. Abby blinked and rubbed he red liquid away. As she opened her eyes, she gasped. She could see! After all these years of blindness, she could really see! She saw the dark alley walls, her own hands, but most of all, she could see her healer, Christ himself, and he was beautiful.
       She didn't know what to say. This man had cured her of her blindness! Abby wanted to thank him, but none of the words racing through her mind seemed enough to express her gratitude. She looked into though bright eyes of his, and knew that she didn't need to say anything.
       "Abby," he said more sternly, "There will be other tempters who will try to lead you away. There is only one Way to the place where they will not reach you, my Father's house. That Way, is to follow me. Can you do that?" Abby nodded. Christ smiled once more. "Joy shall be yours." He turned and walked out of the alley without turning around. He had already rounded the corner before Abby realized she had to keep up with him. She jogged out to the street, but he was no where to be found. There were people bustling along here and there, but Christ had disappeared.
       "Where are you?" Abby whispered to herself, turning in every direction. She heard a voice, the voice, although her healer was not to be seen.
       "I am always watching over you," he said. "Though you may not see me, you will feel my presence." Sure enough, Abby felt as if the same compassionate eyes were looking at her.
       "But how will I know where to follow you if I can't see you?" She asked.
       "I will show you." And after he spoke those last words, Abby felt he wouldn't speak aloud to her again for a long while.
       Just then, she saw a small boy sitting with his knees to his chest on the sidewalk. His eyes were red and his cheeks were stained with tears. Abby walked over to the boy, knelt down and put a hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her with round blue eyes. He was alone; he needed comfort.
       "My name's Abby. Can I help you?"

My Little Sister's Saturday

Coast clear.
Roger that.
Do you see the target?
Right on the counter.
Sneak forward.
Nervous glances.
Footsteps!
Hurry! Open the lid.
See the prize.
Round and delicious.
Grab a few.
Make your escape.
Whew, that was close.
Mom is in the kitchen.
Her voice makes you jump.
Guilty, you listen.
Her interrogation consists of one question.
"Who stole the cookies from the cookie jar?"

The Dreams and Dissatisfactions of Inanimate Objects #002 The Pencil and Pen

       I am The Pencil. I am used through out the world. I love my job. I help you create anything from math equations to history essays to artistic sketches. You will usually see me in my yellow uniform, but lately I have been expanding my wardrobe. No matter what color or shape I take, though, you will recognize me by the eraser on my head. My eraser is what sets me apart from other writing utensils. I know that sometimes, I will make mistakes. I realize I don't always place the right stroke in the right place- that is what my eraser is for. You can use me to clean up your mess of graphite. I love helping you start again. That is something my brother, the pen, does not understand. He could learn a thing or two from me.
       Pen is my name and writing is my game.  My particular pride is writing the address on your envelopes. Only I can do that. I am very important. I am used to sign legal documents of all kind. My ancestor was used to write and sign The Declaration of Independence. Now tell me, could any other writing utensil top that? I help you write the things that really matter, the ones you know will be permanent. I don't squeak when you use me and I don't need to be sharpened like my brother, The Pencil. He is always getting worn down. He could learn a thing or two from me.

Are Faeries Real?

I do believe in Faeries.

       Well, have I ever seen one?

No. 

       Do I have any proof that they are real?

Um... no.

       Then how can I say I believe in them?

Just because I haven't seen them doesn't mean they can't exist.

       So I can't prove Faeries are real?

No more than I can disprove it!

This is something I have struggled with for a long time. I confided in my friend my worries, and she gave me the solution. I am a Faery Agnostic- we just can't know.

Although, I think it's best to default to belief. It's much more fun.

The Queen of the Dancing Leaves

Her dark hair is crowned with amber leaves
Her dress is red velvet
She teaches the             leaves to dance
                          falling
 And turns them the color of the sunset
She jumps off the b r a n c h and
                                                       t
                                                         w
                                                             i
                                                         r
                                                       l
                                                     s
                                                         her way down.
Her dress spreads out- glorious!
Her graceful ways bring the fall, the autumn
The leaves follow her steps, victorious
You see them complete the dance she leads
But her Solo is seen only by the moon
The finale she dances after the last leaf
                                                               falls
To a mysticandmelencholy tune.
No one has beheld her beauty in those last steps
No one has seen that annual ballet.
She is the Queen of the Dancing Leaves
The most angelic of all the Fey.

The Dreams and Dissatisfactions of Inanimate Objects #001 The Answering Machine

       All day long, all I do is take your calls. Nobody ever asks me if I like my job. Nobody cares if the Answering Machine likes remembering all your appointment reminders and Aunt Sally calling for the fifth time to ask if Steve got the job.  Nobody cares about the Answering Machine.
       You lazy people! When you are sitting around at dinner and the phone rings, you won't walk ten feet to pick it up. You all say, "Oh, just let the Answering Machine get it." What if it was Micheal calling to ask your daughter on a date? Or Tori is waiting to tell you her father has died? All they hear are those four droning rings. And none of them are happy or grateful when they here my voice, asking them to leave a message. They always say, "Oh, no. It's the Answering Machine." As if it's a bad thing!
       No one calls to see how I am doing. Nobody wants to know if the Answering Machine is sick or happy. No one thinks, "Gee, I wonder if Answering Machine is having a good day." You associate me with disappointment because you never hear the people you were calling for when I answer. When they were too lazy to pick up the phone, I was there for you. I answered your call. I listened to you anxiously asking your friend to call you back. You never even said hello to me!
       But no matter how I feel, I keep going. As long as there are telephones, I will be. This Answering Machine will go on in the face of trials and adversity. When all else fails, I A.M.

My Imagination

       I have been diagnosed with  O. A. I. D. -- Over Active Imagination Disorder.  Many people get this between the ages of four and ten, but normally grow out of it by the time they turn thirteen. For me, it is a chronic illness. My doctor has tried everything to keep the symptoms down, but none of his attempts have worked, so he gave up. For those of you who are not familiar with this disorder, the symptoms include hallucinations, talking to yourself, gazing off into the distance, and an addiction to books. Some people deal with O. A. I. D. by avoiding the things that cause the symptoms to flare. I don't. The things that usually activate my symptoms are the dark, being home alone, climbing trees, movie sound tracks, reading, acting, and generally anything to do with words.  Now you can see why I will never be cured from this. I can't stop doing any of the above. It's just a part of me. Besides, I like talking to myself. And climbing trees. But I don't like the dark. Oh, well.
       Most people who cannot be cured of O. A. I. D. don't want to be cured. I would fall into that category. Some people wake up one day and realize they've been suffering from this disorder all their life and decide to be rid of it forever. The thing is that they don't know they haven't been suffering from anything, but rather enjoying what fewer and fewer people appreciate. They like it until they find out that the men and women who don't have O. A. I. D. labeled them as "crazy" or "weird". Then there are those of us who find out and don't care.
       Now if you'll excuse me, I have to battle the dragons in my back yard.

My Sword

I have a sword that hangs next to my bed. I bought it off the internet. I have to write something about it, because it is a very important thing  in my life. If you asked me the "If your house was on fire..." question, then my sword would be pretty high on the list of things I would want to save (assuming all living things are already out of the house). This sword is not sharp, but it is heavy. It is all black. This sword hangs next to my on my wall when I go to bed. But sometimes, when I see those yellow eyes peeking out of the closet or that tail sticking out from under my bed,  reach over and grab my sword. And I stalk the house. Maybe it is one o clock in the morning and I think some growl or hoot has woken me up. I creep down the stairs with my sword, holding it aloft. I hear foot steps. My heart is trying is beat its way out of my chest. I can't breathe. What was that noise? My knuckles turn white from gripping the hilt. I peer into the darkness and slowly back up, placing one socked foot behind the next. Something hits me from behind and I stifle a cry of alarm. It's my sister, armed with her daggers (the same sort as my sword). She couldn't sleep either. Glad for the company, we both creep around the house one last time and are satisfied with what we find- no monsters, orcs, Sith lords, or otherwise found anywhere. After saying good morning- it's now one-twenty a. m.- we curl up under the covers of our beds. I fall asleep to the image of my sword, hanging ready on the wall and that is enough. My Imagination slips from Reality and back into my backpack for safe keeping. For now, I am safe.

A Very Short Poem

All king's horses and all the king's men,
Couldn't face Goliath, but then
There was David.

My Name

Readers,
       Some of you may be wondering what E. J. stands for. Those of you who aren't wondering, already know and should not reveal this. Perhaps you have a theory. Allow me to confuse you a bit. My name has nothing to do with T. S. Elliot, although he is an amazing poet and if you have never heard of him I want you to stop reading this right now and go read The Hollow Men and Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats (then you can wonder at how such different poems were written by the same amazing poet). I actually had never heard of him when I created my writer's identity. But discovering this poet is another story entirely and I don't wish to confuse you that much. Now you must be thinking what could E. J. possibly stand for. Elizabeth Jane? Eleanor Jasmine? Esther Joy? None of these are correct. Perhaps, then, it stands for something completely ridiculous such as Elephant Jelly-jars, Economical Jealousy, or Earwax Jolt. No, all wrong. Then again, it could be made-up words: Eelbob Jali or Epinop Janex or Earpol Jorlz. Are you kidding? That's ridiculous! You must be wondering what amazingly profound secret E. J. is. Well, it's not an amazing or profound secret. Good thing, too, because I'm terrible at keeping secrets.
       Your blogger,
Emerson Jay Elliot
Oops! See? I'm terrible at keeping a secret.

Eulogy To a Dear and Beloved Friend Who Will Forever Remain In My Heart But Has Consequently Passed On

P. J. was a faithful companion, who's life and death reminds us all how time waits for nothing and technology will press on. P. J.'s birth date is unknown, but I have known him a good nine years. He died August 2 of this year. Doctors are still unsure of what caused the death, but I afraid I know the answer. Dear friends, I stand before you guilty of having a part in the unfortunate event. Having forsaken P. J., I caused a sense of purposelessness in his life. He felt that he had played the part he was meant to, and was no longer needed in this world. I found him, dead, under some old school papers of mine. It was quite a shock to me, but his memory still lives in my heart. I buried him in my desk- I think he would have liked that. Someday, my grandchild will pull him out of the attic and see him, yellow and crumbling and faded. Then, I will tell them the story of Paper Journal, confident, friend, and travel sized notebook.
Now, a moment of silence for P. J.




Now my Blog would like to say something:
Hello, readers. I am THE BLOG. I am taking up the torch of P. J. and becoming Ms. Elliot's new writing companion. I also want to say that I was the one, though not intentionally, who killed P. J. I took his place, though I think it is for the best. We know he is in a better place, now.

Thank you Blog. You may all exit quietly and respectfully. Go and enjoy your notebooks while they still live. Do not make the same mistake I have. Thank you for listening- or rather, reading.

Your Gift

I stared at her. Just sat there staring.
       "Cut that out, Kate."
       "Um, Reagan? You just told me something I could have you thrown in a mental institute for. Don't you think I can be just a little freaked out?"
       "You believe me then?" Reagan's eyes were wide. She was desperate.
       "Well, there's no way you would lie to me about this. Still, I can't say..." What was I supposed to do? She just told me she had a gift- like a supernatural gift. What is a best friend supposed to say to that?
       "Do you want to see?"
       I nodded solemnly, looking her up and down. I'm not sure what I was looking for, lasers coming out of her eyes? She took off her shoes and socks and warily glanced around her. We were in the middle of a wood, so I didn't think anyone would be watching us. Reagan dug her now bare feet into the ground. She looked up at the sky and felt the tree trunk next to her. Ever so slowly, her body began to float upwards, about three feet above the ground... my friend could fly! I stood there with my mouth open so wide a whole swarm of bees could have flown in.
       She hung, suspended there for about thirty seconds. Her eyes glazed over like someone in a trance. Her hair was the first to change. It began moving like a strong wind was pulling it, but there wasn't so much as a breeze.  It twisted and fell, then something really weird happened. Well, weirder. Reagan's blonde hair began changing color. It started at the roots. Purples and blues and were literally climbing out of her scalp. And if that wasn't enough, her whole body shimmered with light. Sparks flew. It was almost as if she was controlling the light because it traveled in an arc from her body and didn't spread out. It was so beautiful.
       Next, her skin changed. Color seemed to come out from her bones and spread across her skin. The same violet shades from her hair covered her body. At this point, if a green, three-legged creature said, "Take me to your leader," I would have given it the president's address. Reagan was a freaking rainbow. Sparks danced through the trail of chromatic light. I had a hard time believing this was still my friend. I thought it couldn't get any more gorgeous.
       Then she started spinning.
       The arc of brilliance coming from Reagan twisted on itself and began rolling up, starting at the end furthest from us. It hovered in an orb above her head, then lost all its shape and spilled over her. Then, as a finale, the light intensified so that any trace of my friend disappeared and I had to turn away so I wouldn't be blinded.
       When I opened my eyes again, there was just Reagan falling to the grass and collapsing with exhaustion.
       "It... really... wears me out." She gasped between deep inhales. I helped her stand.
       "You're shaking." I said, worriedly.
       "Always do... after that." I waited for her to catch her breath, then we started walking home.
       "What did you do?" I was dying to know how she could do such an amazing thing.
       "Nothing!" Reagan shouted with surprising forcefulness.
       "Nothing? Are you kidding me? I mean you- I saw-"
       "I know what you saw! I didn't do anything. Sure, I floated in the air, but that's all. I can't fly or anything. I float when I do- whatever you want to call it. Whatever it is, it doesn't have a purpose. I just sparkle." She spit these last words out with such obvious disdain that I almost cried.
       "But it doesn't have to have a purpose, does it?" Didn't she know how much I would give to do something like that?
       "Have you ever heard of someone- like a superhero- who could do something really different and not have a reason for it? They saved people. I can't save people with what I do. What good is it?"
       "You don't need to save lives! Heck! That's a stupid reason not to like your- power I guess you could call it. The problem with people these days is they can't just enjoy things for what they are."
       "I don't get what you're saying."
        "Listen, Reagan. What you just did what probably the most beautiful thing I will ever see if I lived ten life times. You have that in you. Gosh, how can I get this through your head? You have such a strong capability of raw beauty. Just enjoy it. If there needs to be a purpose, how about humbling your best friend? It's so weird- I mean, I feel so happy knowing something that pulchritudinous exists."
       We stepped out of the woods and came out to a street in my neighborhood. She didn't say anything for a long while. I shoved my hands in my pockets, wondering if I had said too much. Finally, I heard her say very softly,
       "I think I understand."
       I smiled and then so did she.

I hope Reagan and Kate taught you something- or at least reminded you. We all have talents and special abilities. Not everyone uses them well. Sometimes, we don't know what to do with them.  In the meantime, enjoy what you have been given and share it with those around you.  ^"So Christ himself gave the apostles, the prophets, the evangelists, the pastors and teachers,  to equip his people for works of service, so that the body of Christ may be built up  until we all reach unity in the faith and in the knowledge of the Son of God and become mature, attaining to the whole measure of the fullness of Christ." Ephesians 4:11-13 Wait and pray for God to show you. In the meantime, enjoy what you have been given and share it with others. 
Have a wonderful day!

You Could Say

You could say, "I want ice cream."
Or you could say, "I have a certain craving for the cool sensation that comes from consuming that common dessert that consists of cream, sugar, and various flavorings."
You could say, "I hate math class."
Or you could say, "I strongly reprehend that despicable and monotonous class in which we are instructed about the numerical system, its patterns, and how to apply them to real life."
You could say "You need a bath."
Or you could say, "Dear friend, during the course of the morning, I seemed to notice a certain stench in the area. After further investigation, I concluded that said smell was a result of lack of hygiene on your part. I suggest you take appropriate action by alternately dousing yourself with water and scrubbing yourself with soap."

See how much more fun it is? So when school starts, don't complain about those vocab test!

Good-bye

       Every writer has something to say about good-byes. It is inevitable for them to write something about it because good-byes are very emotional for humans in general. Last night, I had to say good-bye to a very important person in my life. We know we will still see each other, but that didn't console me. People always call good-byes bittersweet. I think it's just bitter. The sweet comes when you get that letter in the mail from them, or you call them and hear there voice. But there is nothing sweet about the good-bye itself. I don't think I've ever actually bawled during a good-bye. I will cry before and after, but when I am actually saying the words, watching them drive away, nothing comes. The funny thing is that I hurt like I'm crying. My muscles are tense and my chest heaves, but I don't tear up. It's almost like throwing up when nothing is in your stomach. I think there is something in all of us so that it doesn't matter who we are saying good-bye to, we still are sad. Even if we are saying good-bye to our mortal enemy, I believe the something is triggered by the word and we think, There's nothing good about good-bye.

Letter From a Monster

Dear Human Child,

       I want to thank you sincerely for your wonderful hospitality. You have been most gracious to share your bedroom with me. I hope you don't mind, but I cleared out your stuff from my living space. You need to dust badly. Unfortunately, I became very hungry from shoving all those old sneakers and toys, so I ate them. I am very sorry. If it is any comfort, they were superb.
      I understand that you sleep at night. This may pose a problem as I work the night shift. I probably will make noises that will wake you up; I hope you will not mind. They are very odd noises, I must admit. My stomach for example makes atrocious growls. I get very hungry at night- so hungry, I could eat you!
       That was a joke.
       I hope we can be good friends.
From,
  The monster under your bed
PS Your neighbors are charming! Godzilla lives in the closet and has already invited me to lunch!

Cirlcle of School

       People talk about the circle of life. I don't think there is such a thing, but I do see recurring sequences. Such as the enthusiasm for school in a student. By the time August rolls around I can't wait to organize my locker and check off my assignments. I hardly get enough of the teachers' lectures and taking notes is the best past time ever. But each month becomes more and more monotonous. My locker gets messy. The lectures are droning and I get hand cramps from all the writing. School hours grow longer and Monday mornings appear without my permission. When May finally arrives, I hate having a routine. Then, almost too soon, summer arrives. You don't see your friends everyday, like before. Your brain activity drops drastically. Before you know it, you feel lazy and sick of having nothing to do. How many days until school starts?
It's happened to everybody; don't pretend like you don't know what I'm talking about. Unless you've gone to one of those all-year schools. Then you have never experienced this and we should all both pity and envy you.

A Memory

I saw a dead butterfly today.
It was completely dead.

Dead                 I hate that word.

Its wings were ragged and the yellow was fading.
The body was crumpled and stiff.

Dead                 It's not fair.

I know all butterflies die.
Why should this one get an exception?

Dead             It's such an ugly thing.

I don't think butterflies were meant to die.
They shouldn't rot at the side of the road.

Dead              It should never be called the end.

Nobody draws pictures of dead butterflies.
They are always alive and flying.

Dead                 I wish, I wish.

The butterfly was born, lived, and died.
And no one saw it.

Dead              But I did.

I didn't stop when I saw this butterfly.
I hardly gave it a thought when I passed it.

Dead            I hate that word.

But now I remember the butterfly.
I see it in my dreams.

Alive                 A beautiful yellow.

It flies higher and higher then disappears between the clouds.
It smiles right before that.

Alive               And blows me a kiss.

A Small Introduction

Of course, e. j. elliot is not my real name. I ask that those of you who do know my true identity keep it secret. I want to start this blog as a way of sharing my writings and thoughts with you. Not all of it will be well organized. Some of it will be terrible. But I hope that you enjoy it.
Remember: you can survive anything with jeans, boots, and coffee.