Mirror, Mirror On the Wall

With pen in hand, a melancholy Crystal is sitting alone at an antique mahogany desk. A grand gilded mirror is on the wall beside her. With her exemplary writing abilities and expedient manner, she has been given the distressful task of penning an eulogy for an esoteric friend. To extol him, she would have to use euphemisms. The emotional Crystal wanted to expunge the friend's horrendous death from her mind. If only she could expedite this painful process. A gentle breeze whispers past the back of her neck, sending a shiver down her spine. To exacerbate the mood, a soft glow shimmers from the mirror onto the paper. She slowly turns toward the evanescent image in the glass while her trembling hand reaches for the telephone receiver. On the polished surface the misty words come into focus: Who you gonna call?
In a quivering voice Crystal replies,"Ghostbusters."
~JCW 2000

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Pieces Of Eight

As Libbie tackles huge granite steps one by one, she looks up as far as the eye can see. There is a building that appears to be as tall as a mountain with creatures sitting on top of each corner. She reaches the large stained-glass doors and opens one. Her shoes steps on to the rose and black marble floor. The little girl finds her self surrounded by thousands of books. Libbie walks along the edge and reads each title down the isle. When she reaches the row, she starts reading some out loud in a soft whisper. "Catcher in the Rye", "The Human Comedy," "Romeo and Juliet..." As Libbie goes on, her voice gets louder. "Taming Of the Shrew," "East of Eden," "Of Mice And Men..." Then the youth suddenly jumps. An old book flew off the shelf and with a bang, hit the floor. There is a musty smell that comes from the heavy bounded literature. She immediately sits down on the cold marble.

At once, the book entrances the young child. The cover has carved letters with a picture of an ivory skull and cross-bone. The image is shimmering like a diamond. Unexpectedly, the novel opens and flips pages by it's self. The spellbound pages come to a halt. The mystical powers draws Libbie to read the tale inside.

"The Hispanila was rolling scuppers under in the ocean swell. The booms were tearing at the blocks, the rudder was banging to and fro and the whole ship creaking, groaning, and jumping like a manufactory. I had to cling tight to the backstay, and the world turned giddily before my eyes; for though I was a good enough sailor when there was way on, this standing still and being rolled about like a bottle was a thing I never learned to stand without a qualm or so, above all in the morning, on an empty stomach.

Perhaps it was this-perhaps it was the look of the island, with its gray, melancholy woods, and wild stone spires, and the surf that we could both see and hear foaming and thundering on the steep beach-at least, although the sun shone bright and hot, and the shore birds were fishing and crying all around us, and you would have thought anyone would have been glad to get to land after being so long at sea, my heart sank, as the saying is, into my boots, and from that first look onward I hated the very thought of Treasure Island."

The words begin scrambling in all directions as if they were live bugs scurrying on the page. A cast of colors gush outward from the paranormal literature. Yellow, green, blue, purple, red, and black streaks swirl around Libbie's body. Trembling with fright, she is glued to the floor and struggles for her voice to cry out. Slowly, the ground starts spinning. The circular motion increases in speed. She closes her eyes tight and wraps both arms over them from a blinding glow. After a few moments, the whirling ceases to exist.

As Libbie's arms glides down away from her sparkling blue eyes, the head reduces the feeling of dizziness. Her hands descend on grainy pebbles while she hears a roar of thunder behind her. There is an essence of the fresh sea air. In front, there are forms of coconut palm trees and large rugged stones. As she looks up, darkness is all around with bright stars and the moon shines down on the beach. Libbie realizes she is inside the enthralling story.

As a cool breeze sweeps along the surface of the island, a flicker of light hides behind a rock. Libbie's curiosity brings her crawling toward the unknown. When she peaks over the coarse boulder there are flaring sparks shooting out from crackling wood. She sees a young lad caring a jug to a one legged tough guy that appears to be holding a piece of paper with torn edges. On his bulky shoulder sits a light blue and bright green feathered bird. Another man's face has sharp features and seems to be thinking. One close sailor has long dangling earrings. Many others were singing, "Fifteen men on the dead's man's chest. Yo- ho-ho and a bottle of rum!" The pirates were having a jolly old time.

After a while, Libbie starts hearing a low distant click, click, click. The beating noise becomes intense within her ears. Her eyes roll side to side while the hands clench tighter to the rock in front scrapping with the finger tips. A hot steamy breath creeps along the back of her neck. She does not want to look, fear has overcome her. Curiosity strikes again in her mind and she turns. Libbie is about to make a yelp, but instead says, "Oh! Its Ms. Flinch, the Liberian." Libbie glances around and finds that she is back inside the library clutching the book within her arms. As she looks up, on the ceiling there is a painting. The girl observes a wooden ship by an island, much like the one she was just on. Present in the scene are pirates around a campfire. Libbie, smiling and showing her sparkling white teeth, is pulled by a clammy hand to the check out line.

Stories can be powerful by influencing people to their dream in life. There are many types of tales that someone can relate to or just have fun. Some have comedy, adventure, drama or passion. A person can use their own imagination to create a movie in their mind. Our the stories told in truth? Not all of them, but they still get the reader involved with the characters. There is always joy when it comes to reading a good book. My dream is to become a writer. To bring enjoyment to children and adults. Robert Louis Stevenson is my favorite author, who is yours? Which characters inspired you? As when Mr. Stevenson did to me when I read "Treasure Island."

~JCW 1999

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