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!
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
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.
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