The Summoner of Chaos

Our third story, a thrilling fantasy piece entitled "The Summoner of Chaos", comes from Brian.  Is Mother Laura the savior of Zare and Alta's village, or its destroyer?  Read on to find out, and see if you can spot her weakness before the protagonists do...

The Summoner of Chaos

            "Mother Laura, what will our village's fortune be?"

            Mother Laura was a nun in a church outside the village for so long that she was now seen as an oracle. She was a sorceress, though nobody knew, because she hid it well. Her home was the now abandoned church that once thrived with people. The question was asked by a man named Zare. He and a woman named Alta were the village officials, and it was their job to meet mother Laura every nine days, according to ancient tradition set by an infamous king and queen. The village was very attached to tradition, so it wasn't an advanced place compared to the other medieval towns in England.

            Laura closed her eyes, sitting in her wooden chair. She whispered a secret hymn that was claimed to let her see the future. After a long moment, a look of grief fell on her face, and she said, "I am sorry, but I see famine and drought. Many will become ill."

            Zare, with an angered look on his face, stared intensely at her, and scolded, "You are wrong. You have to be. There are too many people in the village already who can't care for themselves. How dare you make it this way."

            "It is not my choice to give life and death, neither prosper nor poverty," said Laura, slightly annoyed.

            "It is your fault," Zare fumed, "It will always be your fault. You will always be responsible for-"

            He was interrupted by Alta, who warned him, "Calm down, Zare. Accept the fact that it is impossible to change our futures."

            "You better listen to her," said Laura, her face turning slightly red, but keeping calm. "If you don't stop, I will make it much worse. Will you accept it?"

            "Never," Zare announced dutifully, "I can't give up on my people."

            He looked around the room and started to walk around. Laura was cautious of his every move as she curiously watched him.

            "You know, Laura, I never liked you. It makes me suspicious that you are able to make those predictions. Are you hiding something? Is something going to make you very wealthy soon? You know you have to present it. If you don't, you're breaking the village rules."

            Alta opened her mouth to say something, but saw the look in Zare's eye that made her know he wasn't about to stop, so she stood there helplessly, listening to him.

            Zare thought for a moment, deciding how to blackmail her into changing. Then he walked up to a portrait of Laura and said," You know, Laura,  I've noticed that you seem to take a liking to this painting. It seems very high quality. How much did it cost?"

            "Nothing," Laura said, "I made it myself."

            " Well, it would be a shame for all this hard work to go to waste."

            Zare ripped the painting off the wall and was about to smash the delicate canvas on the hard stone floor, but Laura cried out in exasperation, "Please, I'm begging you. Any painting but that one. If you rip that painting, you will rue the day you crossed me. Understand?"

            The official lifted the painting as if to throw it down, but Laura couldn't take it any longer. She started levitating in her chair high above the officials as they stood in shock, and she screamed, "All right. I shall make it my fault. You better run before I destroy you!"

            Alta grabbed Zare's arm and pulled him away, and they ran to the village, where they saw the full extent of the damage.

            It rained, thunder crashed, and people panicked. Mothers grabbed crying babies and ran them into huts of mud and brick. Farmers and field hands tried to calm terrified cattle and fight off hordes of locusts that would demolish the crop. Some people ran inside, while others ran screaming in the streets. "This is pure chaos," thought Alta.

. . .

            "You have to help us," yelled one villager in despair. Zare and Alta had called a town meeting inside the biggest, safest building they could find. It was a granite two story hall with a raised platform resembling a stage at the end that Zare and Alta were standing on. As the rain pounded, they were trying to calm the large groups of terrified people.

            "Everyone try to stay orderly and composed. We don't want a mob," said Alta in the most orderly and composed voice she could speak. "We all agree on one thing. We have to stop this."

            She leaned over to Zare and whispered, "To stop this, people need to know the cause. You have to admit that this is your fault."

            "Are you crazy? They'll kill me." Zare exclaimed.

            "Just do it," Alta said, pushing him to the front.

            Zare stumbled to the front, coughed in complete silence, and said, embarrassed, "I have to tell you all something." He sighed, building up his courage. "...I am the reason that this started. I made Mother Laura angry and she placed a curse on us."

            There was a gasp, and a barrage of yelling and excited whispers started in the crowd.

            "I threatened to destroy one of her portraits, and I expected her to be angry, but she seems to be obsessed with the painting. It seems that she has no power without it."

            A man named Antor ran up to the platform and yelled, "I have an idea." The whole crowd's noise ebbed, then ended. "Our oracle is obviously too strong to be defeated by force. We have to outsmart her, and being the village riddler, I will volunteer to help fight her."

            A cheer roared from the crowd, and the village officials and Antor ran to get spears and swords, just in case. They fought through the weather and burst open the door to the church, where Laura sat in her chair hands in her lap, legs crossed.

            "I was expecting you, and I am ready to fight. But be warned, my children, I cannot be stopped."

            I cannot be stopped. The wicked words rang in Alta's head, and she didn't miss the edge that made it seem like she enjoyed saying that.

            Laura stood up out of her chair and the whole church went dark for a moment. By the time the torches lit back up, she had multiplied into fifty people. As they stampeded towards them, Laura's voice boomed through the church, saying, "Only one of these people are real, and you'll have to figure it out, but things are not always what they seem."

            They all started to fight and defeat the copies, but it was going nowhere. They had defeated all of them and the room was empty, but Laura's evil laugh persisted.

            "What is going on?" Zare asked in dismay.

            Antor hurriedly glanced around the room, and he saw the large painting and saw its good condition. This must be her prize jewel. Nothing is more valuable to her than this, He thought to himself. If it's in such good condition, Laura is missing, and she is a sorceress, I wonder...

            He found himself running before he even thought about it, his spear out, held under his arm like a jouster with a lance, and he braced himself for impact with the wall behind the painting. The painting ripped in two, the spear snapped violently against the wall, and the booming voice was now screaming in pain. The painting disintegrated into dust.

            Exactly what I thought, Antor told himself. You couldn't hide from us for long, Laura.

            There was no rain pounding on the town any longer, and the wind stopped howling. "Antor," Zare said, "thanks for going through all this trouble to save the village for my mistake. I'll never do that again."

            "No problem," Antor said. "Now let's go. I want to get away from this musty old church."

            They walked back to the village and celebrated with a banquet. There were cheers and toasts, and even those injured by the storm got to join. People sang and danced, and it almost seemed like the storm never happened. Though there was damage to many of the buildings, now was a time for joy.

            Since Laura was gone, her prediction seemed to disappear, too. Corn stalks almost radiated bright green and yellow light. Apple trees crowded with crunchy, juicy apples. Children laughed instead of crying, cattle grazed and ambled across the field without a care, and the sun shined bright.

            The creaky church sat on a small hill, alone now, until the villagers found a use for it. It would probably be used for storage or a war base, but for now, the village didn't have a care.

                 

                  

Here's our second featured piece, "Talking Malinois", by Anna.  Mr. Benjamin Nicholas, a "lonely, short, balding man with glasses",  is in desperate need of a friend.  He finds one, quite unexpectedly, in the park one day: Claimable, a thousand-year-old talking dog with a past.  A great piece about human and animal needs, and extremely funny.  

                         
                    Talking Malinois, by Anna

           A man was sitting on a park bench one August afternoon. He appeared to be lonely, seeing as he was sitting all alone. He was staring into space, as if he were waiting for something to happen. The park had concrete paths, benches in between the bushes, and a lake in the middle, beyond the grass.

         The man’s name was Benjamin Nicholas. He had no wife, no kids, or a pet of any kind. Mr. Nicholas was a lonely, short, balding man, with giant glasses. Mr. Nicholas was anti-social, and instead of feeling peace, he felt unsettled because of the silence.

               A dog, appearing to be a Belgian Malinois, a breed which greatly resembles a German Shepherd, trotted up to Mr. Nicholas. The dog looked at him with big, brown eyes, and panted. He glanced at the dog’s tag. It simply said, “Claimable.” Mr. Nicholas reached a hand out to pet the creature.

              “Don’t touch me with that sweaty hand,” the dog said.

Mr. Nicholas pulled his hand back in shock. But a dog couldn’t talk, so he reached his hand out again. “Did you not hear me?” the dog said angrily. It stopped panting, and its mouth was closed tight, looking serious. Mr. Nicholas gave the dog a surprised look.

“What, never heard of a talking dog?” the dog said.

Mr. Nicholas was completely shocked. He decided to ignore the dog completely. He stood up, and decided to go home–but who to talk to about this strange event? Maybe a doctor–they could help with this bizarre hallucination. All doctors were similar to Mr. Nicholas. They all suggested that he needed a friend, which was true. Except Mr. Nicholas could never seem to keep one, or find one.

               “Where are you going, sir?” the dog said, trotting up at his heels. “Never heard of a Talking Malinois?”

              “You’re a German Shepherd,” Mr. Nicholas said. He felt stupid, talking to a dog. He also felt embarrassed –he was alone in a park with a dog, who was magnetic to him, and a dog who was probably more talkative than one of those guys you see at an auction.

               “No, you idiot, I’m a Talking Malinois. But, yes, I do look like a German Shepherd. But I’m really a Belgian Malinois, only I can talk.”

              “Good dog,” Mr. Nicholas said, as he didn’t know what to say.

               “I’m more than a dog, you dummy,” the Malinois said. “But I like you.”

               “Are you lost, doggy?” Mr. Nicholas asked. He was trying to ignore the fact that this dog was talking to him, and he hadn’t even said, “Speak.” Why was he hallucinating? He looked at the dog’s collar tags again. All it said was “Claimable.”

               “Is your name ‘Claimable,’ doggy?” Mr. Nicholas asked. The Malinois seemed to shake its tan head back and forth. “Let’s take you to the pound…”

               “NO!” the Malinois roared, jumping off its paws. Mr. Nicholas did not like the way the dog’s jaw moved around when he imagined it talking.

               “Do not take me to that filthy killing center!” the Malinois whined. “Seriously, they’ll kill you if you don’t get adopted, and I hate cuddling! Who’d want me?”

               “I’ll take you,” Mr. Nicholas said quickly. He was desperate for a friend. Even if that friend happened to be an imaginary talking Malinois. Then Mr. Nicholas had an idea. What if this dog wasn’t a figment of his imagination? What if the dog had been sent to him by fairies or wizards?”

         “Are you a magic doggy?” Mr. Nicholas said. “You must be a magic Malinois.”

      “Are you stupid?” the dog cried out in anger or frustration. Mostly likely, it was both. Mr. Nicholas had grown used to others’ impatience with him. The Malinois continued speaking.

         “Dude, there’s a reason that there are myths and cheesy movies about talking mutts. Back in the Middle Ages, having a Talking Malinois showing up at your door was a gift. Those stories have been told differently, and passed down through the ages so they end up in Hollywood. Seeing as you’re a lonely oddball, you wouldn’t want my company.” The dog trotted off.

      “Wait! Claimable, come!” The dog paused, looked over its shoulder, sat down, and stared at Mr. Nicholas.

      “Dude, my name’s not ‘Claimable,’” he said. “You chose my name, if you wish to accept me.”

      “What? Accept you? What the heck are you talking about?” Mr. Nicholas exploded. He greatly disliked being confused, and the impatient dog was ruining his patience.

         “Have you ever heard the legend of the Talking Malinois?” the dog asked, and Mr. Nicholas shook his head. He felt dizzy, and sat down on the bench. A talking dog. He decided to check himself in to a mental institution in the morning.

      “I’ll tell you,” the dog said. “In the Middle Ages, some wacky wizard decided it would be a great idea to give his Belgian Malinois a potion. It made the dog talk, like nonstop. Worse than me, you can believe it. So then the dog’s puppies wouldn’t shut up either. The wizard banished the dogs due to his daily headaches.

      “After a hundred years, the dogs hadn’t aged. Their owners hadn’t aged either, at least not since the owners had taken the dogs in. So the Malinoises, due to their increased intelligence from the other drooling tail-waggers, knew that they and whoever owned them became immortals. They’re magic, and being around them for days can extend your life.”

      “Why haven’t I seen anybody else with a Talking Malinois?” Mr. Nicholas  asked.

      “Well, dude, basically, we were beaten. We Malinoises can live as long as we want, unless injured severely. We kept giving our owners headaches, so they brutally decreased our population to fifty. So we decided to shut up until we found the right person to take us in. You’re the right guy, at least I think. I mean, you’re the loneliest guy I’ve ever laid eyes on, so I figure you’ll do anything for a friend. Even if it is a dog.”

      True, Mr. Nicholas thought. “Why would I want a dog?” Mr. Nicholas asked. “It’s very costly, and I only have a part-time job.” The Malinois made him uneasy.

      “If you take me in, you can live forever,” the Malinois said. “Give me a name, dude, and you’ll stop aging. Wouldn’t it be nice to make it to the Record Books?"

      Am I hallucinating? If I’m not, is the Talking Malinois story true? Is the dog a freak of nature? Or is the dog’s owner hiding behind the bushes, pretending to be the dog’s voice, and making me a fool? These were all questions swirling around Mr. Nicholas’ head.

         He decided that no, the dog’s owner isn’t a hiding ventriloquist. The dog’s tags would have a real name on it. Even if the dog’s name was “Claimable,” he would’ve come to Mr. Nicholas when he said, “Claimable, come.”

           Suddenly, a short, and plump woman walked into the park, looked at the dog with disgust, and then laid eyes on Mr. Nicholas. He was a pitiful sight.

         “Mister, this park strictly doesn’t allow mutts,” she said, pointing to the dog. “I suggest you take him out of the park before he leaves any unwelcome ‘presents’. I will call the pound or the police until he is gone.”

      “What is your name?” Mr. Nicholas asked. “What gives you that authority around here?”

      “I am Kitty Yarnheart, dog hater extraordinare. I work for the Parks Club, and dogs are not allowed here.” Strange as it was, the dog glared at the lady, and growled. She shrieked softly, and started to sprint away in her expensive high heels.

      So, the dog wasn’t in his imagination. It caused the Kitty lady to go berserk.

      As he watched Kitty run off down the path into the cover of the bushes, it reminded him of all the temporary friends that had left him. His one and only girlfriend, Stacey, had left him after six days. His best friend from college, Joshua, moved as far away from Mr. Nicholas as possible, and changed his name in the hopes that Mr. Nicholas would never find him. The sad thing was that it worked. He decided that he needed the dog as a friend, even if he had to lie to make the dog his.

          “Actually, I was lying about having a part-time job. I’m actually the manager of a three-star restaurant. I make a decent profit, and I’d like to share it with you,” Mr. Nicholas fibbed. In truth, he had a part-time job at the dirty grocery store two blocks from his worn apartment. The reason his job was so close was that he lacked a car, and the money to purchase one.

          “I don’t like liars,” the Talking Malinois said. “I can tell that you are lying. You are sweating, and I can smell it. If you lie to me, you must not be my true master that I have been searching just over a century for.” He began to gallop away.

          Mr. Nicholas was shocked. The dog, his one chance for company, was leaving! “Okay, fine, I don’t have the money for a dog! I work at a grocery store! Are you happy now?”

          “No, I’m not,” the dog replied, slowing his pace, but continuing forward. “Liars will throw you to the pound when they claim they have a loving home.”

               No more lying, Mr. Nicholas thought. I need a dog.

         “Amigo, come here,” Mr. Nicholas commanded. The dog stopped, and looked at him.

      “You talking to me, Mr. Anti-Social?” the dog snapped. “Go ahead, throw me to the pound, cut my infinite life short.”

      “Yes, I am talking to you, Amigo,” Mr. Nicholas declared. “Come here. Now. I am your master. Come home with me. I’ll get a job at a three-star restaurant. Then I can buy you decent dog chow, and I can start eating decent food. I don’t want a bigger bald spot, and I need a pal.” The Talking Malinois rose from sitting, shook, and trotted over.                      

         Mr. Nicholas looked at the tag. AMIGO, it said, in big silver letters.

The Power of Words

http://5pages.net/2008/08/12/words-create-worlds

This week, I'll be posting a few short stories from students.  This first one comes from Bronwyn, entitled "The Power of Words".  If you've ever found yourself sucked into the world created by a good book, you'll appreciate this story.  It's about a young girl who discovers an ancient family secret connected to the mysterious statues her mother has collected and keeps in their home.  Enjoy!

             The Power of Words 
I am not normal. I am just different, and everyone knows it. I live with my mom in the middle of nowhere, in Maine. Well, there was my grandpa, but he died a year ago. Right now, I am waiting. Waiting for mom to wake up, so that I can go outside. Waiting….waiting…

     
Finally, she woke up. I started at a brisk walk into the beautiful spring morning. Rounding the bend of the forest trail, I saw the little creek where I go to think about grandpa. He used to sit here with me. He would teach me all about the plants that he knew. He would point his gnarled finger at each plant, shrub and tree and ask, “What’s that one there, over by the rock?” “A golden maple,” I’d reply. He would close his eyes and nod his head. But now, he is not here to talk and think, just the two of us. Now, all I have is a little bush, a rhododendron, to remind me of him, and the poem, engraved on a little stone nearby.

   
I stopped walking and bent down to pluck the small green clovers that were growing around the base of it. I cleared away all the leaves and stepped back to admire my handiwork. The bush looked beautiful in the crisp, still air. The white rocks circling it sparkled, the buds were starting to unravel, and the air smelled of earth. Satisfied, I turned and walked back home.

    
As I walked through the peeling back door, my mom waved and said, “I am leaving for my meeting. I’ll be back in a few hours. Are you sure you don’t want to come?”
    
I shook my head, and replied sarcastically, “I’ll be all right. There is nothing that can hurt me, unless you count the statues.
     
She gave me a look: an I know something that you don’t know look. Then she walked outside.

     
I ate my breakfast and sat down to read my book. I must have been reading aloud, because when I paused, the echo of my voice saying, “kismet,” rattled through the empty house. I reminded myself that at ten years old, I shouldn’t get nervous about things like quiet. I buried my head in my book again.

     
Then out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw a small, stone dwarf twitch. My mom keeps many stone statues, I don’t know why, but I have never been afraid of them. There were dragons, centaurs, Egyptian gods, and many more. But, I felt fairly certain that the dwarf twitched.

Scared, I clamored to the top of the stairs. On my new perch, I could see all that went on down in my mom’s study. I was just starting to wish that I had brought my book up with me, when there was a whisper. I did not know what was said, but I knew who said it. The small dwarf, now in a green tunic and purple pants, was standing in front of a once marble dragon. Whatever the dwarf said was effective, because it now was jumping and thrashing wildly in the too-small room. After breaking just about everything, it smashed through the window and flew off. Now, chaos reigned.

The pot-bellied dwarf kept whispering odd strings of words, and now all types of once inanimate creatures, demons, and ancient beings were tearing apart the downstairs floor. There were centaurs and ghouls, giants and dragons. There were so many beasts destroying my house and running outside, that I fled in horror. I ran past the bedroom doors, at the end of the upstairs hallway, where I pulled on the thin, white cord that allowed the step to unfurl from the ceiling, so I could climb into the dusty, cobwebbed attic.

The attic had only one dingy light bulb and a small window. It was full of old boxes, bags and trunks - all with a thick film of dust on top. I slogged over to the grimy windowsill and sat down, nervously waiting for mom to return. I watched sadly as the fire-demons ignited my beloved forest, and laughed as sparks started to fly from their fingertips. What could a ten year old do to stop fire-demons?

After an hour, I grew frustrated from watching the chaos outside. I decided to rifle through the contents of the misshaped cardboard boxes at my feet. The first few had typical contents found in any attic: old dusty volumes of out of print books, photos, and a scrapbook of people I am sure I have never met. In the fourth box however, there was a small red book. This, unlike the rest of the contents of the other boxes, had no dust on it.

Intrigued, I picked up the book and brought it to the windowsill where I could read it better. It was a journal! There on the front cover was grandpa’s name. Quickly, I skimmed through the book until I came to a page that caught my eye, not in my grandpa’s handwriting. Before this page, the journal had been normal, with writings about trips and school. But, this new information was full of colorful, intricate diagrams, and long words that I could barely make sense of.

As I read, I discovered that what I thought were statues innocently scattered by my mother, to make our home more interesting, were real beasts and mythological creatures! She turned them to stone. Even more surprising, every one of them could be now controlled by me!

My control over them was not possible with muscle, but with words. I had the power to use what I knew about literature and language, to control all the evil things in the world. Mom had done the same thing and grandpa before her. Now I was going to follow in their footsteps; this explained the look she gave me this morning- she knew that the statues could come alive and I would learn to control them. I eagerly read about many adventures she and grandpa had together, risking their lives, so that the world could be a better place. She moved us to our secluded home with the statues, in order to reduce the likelihood of one of them being released by an unknowing person. And now I would do the same.

I recognized from the journal sketches the dwarf, the fire-demons, even the cyclops. In the back of the journal, was a list of chosen words to control all of the now released statues. I quickly discovered that since they had activated each other, and since I had activated the dwarf, all I had to do was say one of their assigned key words and they would all return to their stony fate- like a chain reaction.

“Xanthareel!” I shouted, and to my amazement, the demons and creatures froze and hardened, standing as if to decorate the forest. THE FOREST! It was burning! Immediately, I opened the trap door to the attic, jumped down, and sprinted down the hallway, down the stairs, past the trampled back door, and into the garden. I grabbed the extensive hose that grandpa once used to water his gardens.

I set the tap at full volume, and sent a jet of water into the flames. I worked my way past my beloved rhododendron into the forest, extinguishing everything in my reach.

That was where my mom found me two hours later: her, with a knowing look on her face, and me putting out fires.

It's Easy to Put an Apostrophe in Its Place

This week, we're looking at that often-misused piece of punctuation, the apostrophe, referred to by many students as "that floating comma thingie".  While the apostrophe is a great little punctuation mark, it can also cause loads of confusion when it's used incorrectly.  Look around, and you'll find apostrophe errors everywhere, especially on the net.  Handwritten grocery signs seem to bring out the worst as well, for some reason.  It's amazing how much trouble one little squiggle can cause when it's allowed to run wild.   

Here's "The Apostrophe Song", complete with Apostrophe Catastrophes like "Treat your loved one's this Valentines" and "The surgery is closed on Saturday's and are open on Sunday's".  Don't miss the gravestone, either.

Sometimes, it can be confusing to tell whether or not you need to use an apostrophe, and many people end up overusing the poor thing "just to be on the safe side".  Much like its buddy the comma, apostrophes have a tendency to multiply like rabbits, so when in doubt, leave it out.

Here's a great refresher on the usage rules, hosted by the apostrophe itself.  I hope it helps.  Dig Chris's whistle, but don't touch Stephanie's pint.