In
Which I Write My Life Story as
Homework
I have no
imagination. Why then do I think that, by staring at this notebook, I
can magically make it work? Or, better yet, why does my mom think it
will work?
I’m locked out of
the house until this notebook shows signs of something that resembles
a story. It’s happened before. Mom seems to think that such drastic
measures can force me to write.
I’m sure it would
work, too … if I had an imagination. But it’s easier to squeeze
juice out of a rock than it is to squeeze a story out of my brain.
So I’m stuck out
here without any hope of rescue. Oh, well, it’s not as though I’m
going to be out here all night, or even have to skip lunch. Mom’s
not that cruel. She’ll have Tisha bring me some lunch, just as she
always does. As soon as it starts getting dark, she’ll send Tisha
with an invitation to supper. Mom’s terrified of these woods,
though, and wouldn’t dare come here herself.
I feel like I’m
rambling, but I guess that rambling is better than writing “I don’t
know what to write, I don’t know what to write, I don’t know what
to write” over and over again like I did a few weeks ago.
Mom was not
impressed with that stunt.
I’m not sure she
would be any more impressed with rambling … but it’s better than
the same six words over and over and over again.
Perhaps I could
write my life as a story. It wouldn’t involve using my non-existent
imagination, and it would be something that resembles a story. It
would be tons more fun than just staring at a deceptively innocent
blue-lined notebook page, that’s for sure.
My name is Jenifer
Marie Brown. People used to call me Jenny, but for the last three
years or so, I’ve been asking people to call me Jen, since it
sounds more grown up. It’s become habit for most everyone by now –
except for Mom and Dad. I guess it’s impossible to train your Mom
and Dad to do anything, so …
At least Tisha has
learned. Although, now that I think about it, she was the easiest
person to convince – I only had to ask her once.
I used to have an
amazing imagination, or so says my mother. Not that I don’t believe
her – I do. It’s just … I don’t remember it, not really. Mom
says I would spend all of my free time outside or in my bedroom, just
making up stories.
I’m an only child.
I don’t know why, but after me, Mom wasn’t able to have any more.
However, she always wanted more, and since she herself had been an
orphan, adoption was the logical solution to her.
When they told me
that they had adopted a boy and a girl who were both around my age, I
wasn’t too keen on the idea. I was a loner, and used to being an
only child. Even in Sunday School, I would cling to the edges of the
room and refuse to interact.
So the thought of
two other children coming to live with us permanently … well, it
scared me. I could handle grown-ups – but other kids? No.
Then Chris arrived
and I was wary of him for all of five minutes. I don’t know why I
accepted him so quickly, but I did. Mom thinks that it was because he
had the same name as one of imaginary friends, down to the unique
spelling – Christofer. However, while I won’t say that that
wasn’t a factor – I’m sure it was – I don’t think it was
the full reason why I liked him.
Whatever the reason,
I liked him, and almost immediately initiated him into my world of
imaginative play. Together we would make up terrific stories. The
living room became the courtroom of a mighty castle, the woods full
of monsters for him to protect me from, the stream I’m sitting
beside a raging river … life was perfect …
Then Chris
disappeared and my once-amazing imagination crumbled into dust.
I don’t know where
Chris went, or how, or why. I don’t know why my imagination went
with him. I do know, however, that every bit of good opinion I had of
him was gone. I despised him, considered him a traitor. It seems an
unreasonable response as I write these words, but it was the response
I had.
I can remember that
we had an argument and that I stormed away, leaving him alone in the
middle of the woods. I can remember that I didn’t want to ever see
him again.
And I haven’t.
I can’t remember
what the fight was about. It could have been something petty, it
could have been something important. It was just after I got my first
pair of glasses, so perhaps he had made a comment about them. I’m
pretty sensitive about my glasses.
Now that I think
about it, I think I remember where we had our fight – though it may
just be my brain playing tricks on me, for it was by this very
stream, and, possibly, not far from where I’m sitting.
But I’m not sure.
Our fight could have taken place anywhere in the twenty acres of
woods that are behind our house.
The truly strange
thing is that, not only did Chris disappear, but so did any paperwork
about him, We have memories of him being with us – photographs even
– but as far as the state is concerned, he never even existed.
Tisha, the promised
sister, arrived only a few days after Chris’s disappearance. Mom
and Dad had been sure that I would like her as much as I had Chris,
for the other imaginary friend I would talk about had her name:
Letitia.
I didn’t like her.
I hated her.
That was eight years
ago. I was seven. Now I’m fifteen, and I still have no imagination.
I don’t exactly
hate Tisha anymore, but I don’t like her, either. I don’t hate
Chris anymore, either. It’s more of an uneasiness when I think of
him than anything else.
I think it’s
jealousy that I feel towards Tisha, I hate to admit. Let’s face it
– she’s this perfect beauty. Long, wavy blonde hair that falls to
her feet, yet never tangles. Big blue eyes that are almost too big
for her face. Alabaster skin no matter how much time she spends in
the sun …
Compare that to me.
I have fizzy brown hair that only makes it half-way down my back –
if I stretch it to full length. Since it’s so frizzy, it sometimes
barely makes it past my shoulders. I have grayish-blue eyes that are
nowhere near the size of hers and are, besides that, hidden behind a
thick pair of glasses. My skin can only be described as pasty with an
overdose of freckles. The only thing I have over her is that I’m
about two inches taller.
Not only that, but
she’s got a great singing voice – and she can make up songs.
Totally unfair. I
can’t tell one note from another, and, as I’ve said before, I
have no imagination and therefore cannot make anything up.
Ugh! I can hear her
singing now. But – hey! Five whole notebook pages full of writing!
I don’t think mom
will be unimpressed.
Then again … I
don’t think she’ll be impressed, either.
Chapter 1
In
Which Chris Shows up and He and
Tisha
Confuse Me.
I just read over
those pages I wrote this morning and find it hard to believe that it
was only this morning I wrote them. Those words are full of despair,
of longing … and despair and longing are the furthest things from
my mind.
Yet it is to this
morning that I must return. To the stream that cuts through the woods
in out backyard.
It was there that
this story begins. I won’t reiterate what I’ve already written,
for I did a good enough job this morning. It puts things into
perspective. I know more now, but to tell everything now doesn’t
seem right. I didn’t know everything this morning. I will tell it
all eventually, just not yet.
After writing those
five pages, I was still dissatisfied. I know that they weren’t what
my mother wanted. More importantly, I knew they weren’t what I
wanted.
I knew that writing
down what had happened wasn’t going to get my imagination back. I
wanted my imagination back, but I didn’t know how to get it back.
Hey! If I had known,
I would have done so years ago!
So there I sat,
staring at the page that I’m now filling with ease, wondering where
my imagination had gone. The sound of Tisha singing was helping
neither my concentration nor my mood.
Thinking that the
fact that my brain was overheating might be my problem, I kicked off
my flip-flops and plunged my feet into the stream, wiggling my toes
around in the smooth pebbles that lined the bottom. I knew that an
overheated brain had nothing to do with my lack of imagination, I
really did, but I was sure that a good foot-soaking wouldn’t hurt.
I closed my eyes and
shut my notebook. A deep sigh escaped my lips. “Why?” I
whispered. “Why did my imagination disappear?” Another sigh
escaped. A sigh of frustration. I opened my eyes and looked down at
the closed notebook and the photograph I had taped to the cover a few
weeks before as a desperate ploy to get my imagination working again.
A picture of Chris and me playing in the living room.
(In case you are
wondering, no it hadn’t worked)
“Chris,”
I muttered. “I don’t know why you disappeared, or how you managed
to steal my imagination, but I wish that you would come back and give
my imagination back to me.”
To conclude my
speech, I gave a dramatic sigh and fell backwards, allowing my eyes
to close again. It was hopeless – I was hopeless. I was never going
to get my imagination back. Why did I even try? Why did my mother
insist that I try?
“Is
there, by any chance, a girl named Jenny anywhere around here?”
My eyes flew open
and I was back in a sitting position within seconds. There, in the
middle of the stream, standing just a foot or so away from my toes,
was a boy. He looked to be about eight or so, and had wild brown hair
peaking out from under his hat and a multitude of freckles.
Since I had only
just looked at the photograph, I recognized him instantly.
“Chris?”
It was impossible
for it to be Chris, the logical part of my brain insisted. Chris was
nearly a year older than me. He would be sixteen, not eight. Yet, my
eyes argued, the boy in the middle of the stream did look like Chris.
Uncannily like Chris.
“At
your service,” he replied with a doff of his hat and a bow.
I blinked as I
continued to examine the boy in mute astonishment. His clothing
reminded me of Robin Hood in both style and color – he even had a
felt hat with a yellow feather. To complete the look, he had a bow
and a quiver full of arrows strapped to his back and a naked sword in
his hand.
It looked sharp.
“Oh
… I’m sorry,” I finally stammered out, realizing that staring
was rude. “I thought you were someone I knew when I was your age.”
I glanced at the sword and bit my lip. “Does your mother know where
you are?”
“But
my name is Chris,” said the boy, lowering his sword and giving me a
confused look. He cocked his head to the side before he added, “And
I don’t think I have a mother … not … not really.”
“Everyone
has a mother,” I replied.
He shook his head
and gave a careless shrug. “Not me. Jenny didn’t give me one.”
“Jenny?”
He nodded as he
stepped out of the stream, sheathing the sword. “Lady Jenifer. She
made me up.”
“She
made you up.” I narrowed my eyes as a chill went down my spine.
He nodded again as a
frown pulled down the corners of his mouth. “But then Tisha and I
got her mad and she locked me in. I’ve been looking for a way to
get her back ever since.”
“Why
did she get mad at you?” I asked, trying to sound friendly, trying
to suppress the uncomfortable feeling welling up inside of me.
He shook his head.
“I can’t tell you,” he answered. “But do you know where I can
find Jenny? I really need to find her.”
“No,”
I whispered. “I – I don’t think I know where she is.” A
nagging part of me argued that I did know where she was, however.
“Oh.”
He sounded disappointed. “I thought you might, though, since you
knew who I was.”
“I
didn’t know who you were, though,” I countered. “I called you
Chris simply because you look like my adopted brother who disappeared
eight years ago.” I held up the notebook and photograph as
evidence.
“That’s
Jenny!” the boy exclaimed, springing forward in excitement. “That
girl! That’s Jenny! Do you know where she is? I have
to
find her!”
My mouth went dry.
For several seconds, all I could do was stare at the boy. In an
attempt to regather my thoughts, I scrambled to my feet, clutching
the notebook to my chest. “That girl …” I managed to squeak
out, “That girl … she’s …”
I could not force
myself to admit the obvious. It was too bizarre. Instead, I started
backing away from the boy – away from Chris.
“Is
something wrong?” Chris asked, his excitement turning to worry.
“Did something bad happen to Jenny?” Oh! Please tell me nothing
bad happen to Jenny!”
“How?”
I questioned, barely comprehending his words. “How are you so
young. You disappeared eight years ago! You were older than me!”
“Eight
years?” questioned Chris, his voice suddenly subdued. “Has it
really been eight years?”
Unable to speak, I
could only nod.
“Eight
years,” he repeated once more. “I hadn’t realized it had been
so long! Oh! This is terrible! You must help me find Jenny! Please
tell me where she is!” He looked up at me with frantic eyes.
“Chris!”
Tisha’s
voice caused me to whirl around. Sure, I had known that she was
nearby – her voice was a constant reminder of that fact – but I
had been so caught up in my confusion over Chris, I had failed to
notice how
close
she was.
For a moment, she
stood there, one hand placed on a tree for support, her eyes fixed on
Chris.
“Christofer,”
she at last muttered, as her gaze fell to her feet. “How … how
did you get out? She locked you in!”
Chris’s attention
left me as he took a few steps in Tisha’s direction. Then he paused
and again doffed his hat and gave an elegant bow. “I know not how I
escaped but a few minutes ago, but I am in quest of Lady Jenifer –
do you know where she is? Also, this fair maiden,” he indicated me,
“has informed me that I have been trapped for eight years, so I am
afraid that I do not recognize you. I must ask your name.”
Tisha took the few
steps that separated them and took his hand. She fell to her knees so
that she had to look up at him before she answered. “Chris.” Her
whisper was so low I was surprised that I heard her clearly. “I am
the Fair Maiden Letitia.”
The look that spread
across Chris’s face was part surprise, part relief, part sorrow.
“Tisha,” he said, in a matching whisper, “eight years is a long
time.”
“They
are indeed,” she agreed, sinking down so that she no longer knelt,
but sat on the ground. She did not let go of Chris’s hand.
“But
they only served to make you all the more beautiful,” Chris
continued.
“But
they have done nothing at all to you!” She let go of Chris’s
hand, allowing hers to fall into her lap with a plop. “Lady Jenifer
is the girl you were just talking to. I think she would prefer it if
you would call her Jen, though.”
He immediately lost
interest in the despondent Tisha and ran over to me. “You’re
Jenny? You’re Lady Jenifer?”
I looked down and
glared at the ground. Things were taking a sudden, crazy turn that I
didn’t like. Sure I had asked for Chris to show back up and tell me
what had happened to my imagination – but I hadn’t expected him
to actually obey the summons.
“Yes,
yes,” Chris continued despite the fact that I was no longer looking
at him. “You are Jenny – I see it now. You do look like her, and
you did say that I had been your brother. Yes, you are Jenny.” His
voice became excited. “Oh, Lady Jenifer, I’m really sorry for
what I did, and I’m sure that the Fair Maiden Letitia is as well!
Will you please, please
come
back? Everything’s been horrid since you left – and only you can
fix things!”
My head shot up and
I fixed my glare on him. “I have no idea what you are talking
about, but I would appreciate it if you would call me Jen, not Jenny.
I’m not a kid anymore – unlike you.” I didn’t know why I was
lashing out at him. Part of it was the fact that everything was
strange and confusing – but I knew that that confusion wasn’t my
whole problem. Something in me was hostile to those two, and I didn’t
know why.
My glare caused
Chris to shrink back and lower his head respectfully. “Yes, Jen.”
He turned a pleading look in Tisha’s direction.
“Jen
has forgotten her imagination,” Tisha explained. “Every bit of
it. She only remembers you as the brother you claimed to be. I don’t
think she even remembers the Ankulen.”
“The
Ankulen?” I flung the unfamiliar word back at her, my only weapon
against the confusion.
“See?”
Tisha buried her head in her hands.
“How?”
questioned Chris. “Is it because …?”
“I
don’t know,” said Tisha. “When I first arrived she could
remember – all too well – and for a few weeks after that … but
then … it happened overnight, Chris. The night before she could
remember … and the next morning. … I thought at first she was
pretending … trying to make me feel worse … but it was soon all
too clear. Jen has forgotten her imagination.”
I frowned. She had
never mentioned that fact to me before. Now that I thought about it
though, well, it had been a rather sudden process, though I had
always placed my forgetting at Chris’s disappearance.
“Stop
talking about me as if I’m not standing here!” I exclaimed, “and
tell me what this word Ankulen
means.
It’s just syllables to me.”
Tisha looked up and
bravely met my eye. “The Ankulen is the bracelet that you always
wore. It’s what used to bring your imagination to life – to bring
us to life.”
“You’re
wearing it in that picture,” Chris pointed out, his finger pointing
to the notebook that I still had clutched to my chest.
I gave them a
skeptical look as I turned the notebook around so I could examine the
picture. I had no memory of a bracelet that I “always wore,” much
less one that I used to “bring them to life.” I forced my eyes
off of Tisha and Chris and onto the picture, and my eyebrows went up.
Sure enough, I was wearing a bracelet. It was a pretty bracelet, too.
A golden band with a large, purplish-pink gem. There was only one
problem with it.
“I
don’t remember ever owning a bracelet like that.”
“I
know,” said Tisha. I looked up and saw that she was once more
standing. “You’ve forgotten about it. But it was your bracelet,
your Ankulen, and you did always wear it.”
“Until
I lost it and forgot all about it?”
Tisha sighed. “It
was already gone when I got here. I don’t know what you had done
with it. I didn’t dare ask.”
“You
had it when I last saw you,” said Chris, his eyes fixed on my
wrist. “You used it to get out – we were in at the time, Tisha.”
“In
where?” I questioned, noticing that the words “in” and “out”
were being used quite frequently.
“In
your imagination,” said Chris, as if the answer was obvious.
“I
don’t have an imagination,” I argued, dropping the notebook and
pencil to the ground and folding my arms over my chest.
“But
you used to,” said Tisha. “You used to have an amazing
imagination, and because of the Ankulen, you could make it real. But
then …”
“You
got mad at us,” finished Chris.
“Well,
I do remember yelling at you,” I admitted. “But I don’t
remember why.”
“You
were mad because you had discovered what we had done,” explained
Chris. “That we had gotten out. And I really wouldn’t blame you
if you decided to send us both back in and forget we ever existed as
we watched our world crumbles to dust around us. It would be our
fitting punishment.”
“Frankly,
that sounds tempting,” I admitted. “Problem is though, I haven’t
the faintest clue how to do that. Perhaps …” I allowed a sigh to
escape me, my arms to fall to my side and my eyes to land on the
discarded notebook. “Perhaps if you’ll help me get my ‘amazing’
imagination back, I’ll forgive you for whatever it was you did.”
“We
would if we could,” said Tisha, her voice tainted by frustration.
“Oh! You have no idea how much I’ve wanted to help you get your
imagination back, Jen. But we don’t know how, not with your Ankulen
missing.”
Well, then, could
you at least show me how to get ‘in’” I asked, folding my arms
as I allowed my eyes to drift over the stream. “Maybe if I see it,
I might be able to remember.”
“You
need the Ankulen to get in,” said Chris.
“Okay
… so I need the Ankulen to get my imagination back,” I exclaimed,
throwing up my arms in exasperation. “The Ankulen, which I lost
sometime between when Chris disappeared and Tisha arrived. That’s
four days' time! It could be anywhere!”
“That
it could,” said Tisha.
I sank to the ground
and put my head in my hands. This was worse than before Chris
appeared. Now, instead of me simply not knowing, my imagination was
being held tantalizingly just out of reach. I noticed my flip-flops
sitting dejectedly nearby, and thrust my feet into them.
“Oh,
Jen,” said Chris. “We want you to find your imagination, too. We
live there … and without you, it’s crumbling. Especially since
It’s
there.”
“It?”
I looked up and gave him a questioning look.
“The
Polystoikhedron,” said Chris, after drawing in a deep breath. The
horror I saw in his face almost made me regret asking the question.
“It appeared right after you left. I don’t know how it got there
but …” he looked at me with small, scared eyes. “It eats
imagination, Jen. No one can stand before it, not even me.”
I shivered. “So …
my imagination is being eaten.”
Chris nodded. I
allowed my head to fall back into my hands.
“Oh!
That’s terrible.” Tisha’s voice was panicked. “We must find a
way to – oh! Jen, do you have any idea where the Ankulen might be?”
“I
thought we had already come to the conclusion that your guess was as
good as mine.” I gave her a pointed look, then softened. “Hey,
tell you what, you can search my room – if Mom asks questions you
can tell her that I sent you in search of something. Chris and I will
search out here.”
Tisha did not wait
for me to relay the instructions twice.
Compare to the original chapter 1.
Oh, and I've decided on a target release day of September 5th! Wish me luck!
Oh, and I've decided on a target release day of September 5th! Wish me luck!
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