This being one

Chatterbox: Inkwell

This being one

This being one of my first Chatterbox posts, hello! A few months ago, I placed a chapter or two of my writing here, however, I can't locate the thread. So I figured I ought to make one of my own. For those who are interested, my story is called The Gifter. Read more to find out what it's about. I will begin at the beginning, with my prologue. Happy reading!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Prologue

 

Everything around me was heat, pure and unadulterated, impassioned. My hands, like white water lilies on their pond of cloudy air, fluttered by my side as I ran from the licking flames downstairs. The inferno had consumed the entirety of the wooden banister, and was making its’ way menacingly after me up the mahogany steps. The brown hair on my head pulled back into a ponytail whipped against my neck, and it was hot with sweat and feverish emotion. I turned my head backward, eyes wild and reflected in them the burning calescent jumble of smoke and mirrors that used to be my living room. There was
nothing left.

I dashed down the hall, trying to escape the fire. It slid quickly up the stairs behind me like a snake, hissing as it burned the carpet that ignited moments after I had literally broken the door to my room open with a crash. I rushed in, frantically searching for some way to escape the inferno consuming my home and my life. My mind seemed to have been enveloped by shock and fear, and it seemed now that the only thing I could think of was the fact that my aunt would scold me for tearing my brand new jeans.

My legs carried me across the pink carpet smoldering grey with ash. I turned my head, scanning every inch of the room that was beginning to smoke. My eyes met the windows. They were my only option. I crawled over on my hands and knees, staying low to the ground, and came up underneath the windowsill. My hands groped around until they found the latch, and I tried to force the window frame upwards. I had no luck. The window had always stuck, ever since I was little, and had been almost completely welded to the bottom frame for unending years. I stood up, about to break the melting glass, when there was a shuddering from the ground up, like a small earthquake. The ceiling burst into flames.

I screamed, and dove into the shelter of my open closet as a large beam from overhead came crashing down into my room. I grabbed the doorknob, and immediately let go with a cry of anguish. It was scalding hot, and my hand throbbed in angry red pain. I pulled a sweater from above, wrapped it around the knob and used it to swing the closet door shut. Instantly, I regretted my decision. The small amount of air in the enclosed space was thick with billows of smoke, and I began to cough
uncontrollably. I put the other sweater sleeve over my mouth and nose in an attempt to keep the smoke away. In the distance, I could have sworn that I heard the faint whine of a fire siren. But my voice was waning, and my one faint try to call out for help resulted in a lungful of burning air and a fit of coughing. I curled up against my unused prom dress and waited for the fire to consume me fully. I did not want to die.

It was just as the fire seeped under the closet and the noises of collapsing wood grew louder upon my ears that the door fell away. My wide blue eyes were suddenly confronted by the sight of my bedroom, eaten up by the hungry orange flames. There was hardly anything left but charred, black beams and sections of floorboard. It was a terrible sight, and I shielded my eyes to the blinding light that was crawling into the closet with me. There was a noise then. I opened my eyes, thinking that
I was safe, that it was someone to rescue me. Sure enough, there was a figure standing out there, upon a lone beam of black wood. But this was strange. The man was not dressed in yellow, he did not wear a hat, and he did not have a hose or a ladder and certainly had brought no help with him. The air around us was completely silent. The man was a dark shadow, and I could not see his face. He held both hands to me outstretched, and I tried to reach upward, to feel them, to know that I was not alone. But no sooner had I tried to move than the rack on the top of my closet came falling down onto me. It hit me squarely on my head, and my eyes began to blur as the heat melted into me. The last thing I saw before I sank into dark sleep was the man, arms spread, a flame bursting behind him like a phoenix from the dying ashes of my rosebud carpet.

I felt no more.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

submitted by Annie the Fish, age 15, Northern Woodla
(June 20, 2009 - 8:40 am)

Why is there all that extra text?

submitted by Emily L., age 13, WA
(June 20, 2009 - 5:14 pm)

Admin, why does this happen sometimes at the beginning or end of posts in the Inkwell?

 

 

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Don't know. We'll fix it if we can.

--Admin

 

submitted by Brynne, age 14, Flying away on
(July 4, 2009 - 9:02 pm)

Extra text? I don't see it. Surprised

submitted by Annie the Fish, age 15, Northern Woodla
(July 8, 2009 - 8:45 pm)

Wow! That was amazing - but so sad!

submitted by Ima
(July 5, 2009 - 11:16 am)

The Admin deleted the extra text. Fish are awesome, by the way.

submitted by Ima
(July 8, 2009 - 11:14 pm)

I know, I have two!! :D

submitted by Annie the Fish, age 15, Northern Woodla
(July 9, 2009 - 7:57 am)

I have more now!

~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~

When
I awoke after what seemed like a lifetime with no end, everything was white. It wasn’t that thin yellowish vanilla white that you get with ice cream, it was whiter than new fallen snow. Everything that met my wide blue eyes was purely bright. I sat up against what felt like a pile of pillows, and looked around.

I sat in a bed that wasn’t mine. The sheets were thin and finely pressed, not like my own microfiber blankets at home. The hospital room was clean, and somehow sterile. The surroundings were bleak, very empty, with no real color except for the white walls and the wood door marked ‘303’. There was a bedside table next to me, and a couple of file cabinets and a stiff-backed chair against the east wall. A single window was across from me, and I could see the
bright sunshine flooding onto the tile floor. It smelled like lemon Windex, which burned my nostrils. I tried to lift my arm from underneath the tightly wrapped sheets, then winced in pain. I looked down to see that I was wearing bandages from my left shoulder to my wrist, and it stung terribly. The memory returned to me.

The fire hadn’t been my fault, I knew that. It was an ordinary Tuesday, the heart of spring in Arizona. We lived in a suburban area, not near the main cities, and it was a quiet place for a child like me to grow up. The grass was green, the air was fresh, and everything smelled like the fresh peonies growing outside the window. I was an orphan since near birth, and had lived with my aunt and uncle all my life. They hadn’t been at home, they usually never were. They were normally always at work, making money to pay the taxes, and the
mortgage on their two-story home. That day, however, they were in Russia, visiting an extension of the vast law firm where they worked. I hardly ever saw them, and when I did they were never happy to see me.

I had been doing biology, the least favorite of my subjects. I loved playing sports, and although I was only sixteen I was sure that I wanted to be a professional athlete. Athletic people didn’t need to know biology, in my opinion, especially not mitosis. I was flipping the pages of my thick textbook, when suddenly there was a loud crack from somewhere in the living room. I didn’t think anything of it at the time; our house always made strange noises. A moment later, I smelled smoke. There was a crackling, a roaring coming from
the living room. I rose to my feet, and walked through the doorway to see everything in flames, and I had panicked. Then… what? A blank, white period of time that I could not remember. I stopped trying.

At that moment, someone pushed the door open and walked in. A nurse dressed in a smart white pencil skirt and vest strode over to my bed, setting on the bedside table a bottle of pain medicine and a vase of flowers.

“Good afternoon,” the nurse said. “You’re very lucky to be alive.”

“I know,” I whispered quietly. The fact that someone was talking with me made the confirmation that I was there, and not at home with my parents in some happier time of my life. I was here, in a hospital bed, and mom and dad were halfway across the world, and I had nothing, nobody...

The nurse placed two of the blue pills in my hand, and gave me a glass of water.
“Take these, and try to get some more rest,” she said, straightening her apron.
“That was some fire.” She was very calm, and I didn’t understand it. How could someone else be so at peace, when inside me there was a literal torrent of emotion swirling and making me feel sick? The earth still spun, and lives went on down on the street below. But for me, everything had stopped. My life was dead and gone, barely there but for the existence of faint family ties somewhere far from where I lay. I swallowed the pills, chased by the cool liquid.

The nurse took the glass from my quavering hands, and dropped the bottle into her pocket. She was halfway to the door when I remembered to ask, “Who sent the flowers?”

“We don’t know,” she replied. “They were just there on the front reception desk in the morning.” She walked out, closing the door behind her. I turned my head to look at the vase. It was full to the brim with blood red roses, all fully in bloom. The petals were soft, delicate, and looked like they had been spun out of pure air. I reached out to touch one with my better hand, when I noticed a
small white card tucked gently into the many green stems. I plucked it out. The envelope read simply, “To Gail”.

I tucked my thumb under the flap of the envelope, and slit the top open gently. I opened the cream envelope and pulled out a small embroidered card. It was white, and in the corner was a small orange flower. I put my finger over it. Orange had become my least favorite color in less than two hours. Under the flower, in thin black script, were four words that I had never seen together in a sentence.

‘You
have been gifted.’

submitted by Annie the Fish, age 15, Northern Woodla
(July 9, 2009 - 7:59 am)

wow that was great!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!post more!

submitted by KittyKat, age 1, Georgia
(July 22, 2009 - 11:46 am)

That was incredible! I can't wait to read more - if you're posting more, anyway.

submitted by Ima
(July 9, 2009 - 10:43 am)

I have more but maybe I should post a new thread? I don't know how it works here... *worry*

 

By the way, Adina thank you for the advice! Much appreciated, I do tend to use a lot of adjectives when trying to describe something. *lols*

submitted by Annie the Fish, age 15, Northern Woodla
(July 10, 2009 - 6:00 pm)

WOW!!! That was awsome but I have some advice. When there is an action scene (like with the fire)write short sentences and loosen up on the adjectives and special verbs ( ie the smoke crawled, my legs led me [ you are running away for your life!]) to show the urgency. you could describe her hair in the hospital when all is peaceful. All in all it was awsome, and you should get it published, or post more! Please!!

submitted by Adina , age 12, Mostly in fanta
(July 9, 2009 - 12:18 pm)

No , you could post more here if you want. (that means POST MORE NOW!!!)

submitted by Adina, age 12, Mostly in fanta
(July 11, 2009 - 11:44 am)

That was amazing! Especially the prologue. I could feel the heat and terror, see the flames and ash. It is fantastic writing. Constructive criticism: I agree with Adina about focusing more on adjectives after the fire. To help with shorter sentences, you might want to try splitting one or two compound sentences. In example: "It hit me squarely on my head, and my eyes began to blur as the heat melted into me" could change to "It hit me squarely on my head. My eyes began to blur as the heat melted into me." Otherwise, though, I love it. I can't wait to read more!

submitted by Allison P., age 12
(July 12, 2009 - 4:10 pm)

Did my last post come through? *worries*

submitted by Annie the Fish, age 15, Northern Woodla
(July 12, 2009 - 5:44 pm)

((Nope, I'll try again. :] ))

I re-read the sentence for a second time, then a third and a fourth. The words did not make sense. They were not in the correct tense. “You are gifted, you were gifted...” I said to myself. But none of these comparisons seemed to relate to this new phrase. I thought about personal talents. I was a good soccer player, I got into States in swimming. But this made it seem like I had lost my gift. I put the card back on the table. Then, after a few minutes, I picked it back up and read it again.

“What could it mean?” I asked myself. More importantly, “Who sent this, and how do they know my name?” I flipped the card over, and to my surprise, there were words on the back as well.

‘277 Cunningham, Steam River Valley. Tomorrow at five. Use the back door. Come Alone.’

I took a deep breath, inhaling and exhaling slowly once. I flicked the card away from me, leaning back onto my downy pillows that were much too soft. There was no getting around this. Whoever had contacted me knew who I was and where I was. Had someone been watching me? On impulse, my eyes darted around the room,
out the window where birds on the sturdy tree branches, whistling their lungs out. I was on at least the third floor. Nobody could see in without a ladder, and even then, there would be the risk of being spotted by other visitors and passers-by. My bus had always dropped me off right at the corner, and I walked only two houses before I reached my aunt and uncle’s. I was the only one ever
to get off on my street, and I would have noticed if someone was following me.

So how did this person know me?

‘Then again’, thought a voice inside me, ‘Steam River is only two miles from here.’ I had to admit to myself that even though this was far off the creepy scale, some part of me wanted to know what was going on. And I had a feeling that that part of me was going to win. I sighed, and shut my eyes, leaning my neck into the cushions. Every part of me ached, but at least my parts could still ache. I could only imagine what might have happened if I hadn’t been saved in time. I slept for a moment, a little slice of peace. Then, the door was once again flung open. The same nurse was back, accompanied
by a stout man in a white coat with ludicrously large glasses.

“Hello there, Miss Lawson,” he said. “My name is Doctor Lionel. I’m very glad to see you’re up and about.”

“In a manner of speaking,” I said, resisting the urge to
roll my eyes.

The small man gave a short, high-pitched laugh that was
clearly faking some sort of glee. “Yes, yes, I do see what you mean. Now, if you’ll permit me to see that arm of yours…”

I relinquished my arm from under the tightly bound
sheets, and the doctor took it and began prodding it with his index finger. I heaved a sigh. This excessive happiness was making me irritated. I wished that everyone would stop trying to make me laugh and smile. I was hardly ready to change my facial expression from the sullen mask of dull disinterest.

“Everything seems to be in order,” the doctor said, and
backed away from my bed. He then turned to the nurse, and said in a low whisper that I could still hear, “Janice, contact the relatives and tell them that they should come get her tomorrow.” With that, Janice swept from the room with a small smile directed towards me, and the doctor followed her with a little, “Have a fabulous day!”

“Keep dreaming,” I muttered as the door slammed behind
the two of them.

I was tired, too tired to stay awake for any more of this. The light in the window across the room was turning a soft rosy pink, and
I knew that the absence of birds chirping meant that the earth was feeling the same way I was. With a sigh, I turned on my side, drawing the covers closer to me, and the comfortable warmth of the cocoon lifted me off to sleep.

((More next post!))

Annie - please make sure you change your story to plain text before you paste it here. Otherwise it creates that block of extra text, and the admins have to do a lot of work to clean it up. --Admin

submitted by Annie the Fish, age 15, Northern Woodla
(July 12, 2009 - 9:04 pm)