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Member
Join Date: Jun 2007
Location: Upper Midwest
Gender: Male
Posts: 10
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Smiley
This is a novel I began so I could graduate from high school. I don't have too much of it complete, but I am working hard to further the story. Tell me what you think so far. Constructive criticism will be greatly appreciated.
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It’s peculiar how normal life can seem. I’m not talking about eating, breathing, and having a heartbeat. Not at all in fact. I’m talking about what you do with that particular heartbeat. Will you fixate your eyes upon the moving pictures in the T.V. box? Will you be eating a piece of canned salmon? Or will you be dangling five hundred feet above a bed of razor sharp rocks? Who has the right to give you your heartbeat anyway? The logical answer would be your parents. But what if you have never known your parents? What if you only have known foster homes? What if those foster homes numbered exactly thirteen, on for each year in your life?
Of course I’m not talking about you (unless I am, in which case, I am terribly sorry not to have given you royalties). I am talking of our protagonist, Smiley. Smiley doesn’t know who is parents are or were, nor does he know where he came from, or if it still exists. Nope, Smiley doesn’t know all too much. He does know, that his name is a strange (and somewhat improper) way of describing “happy.” He also knows he is on his way to his next foster home. Will it be his last? You see, Smiley decided at a young age, a VERY young age (in fact he’d have to be under one year old for this story to make any sense at all), that he would never look for his parents. How great could they be if they gave him away? No, Smiley would never quest for his long lost mommy and papa. However, he did conclude that he was a very special boy, and, in being so, deserved an equally marvelous home. Possibly why he has had thirteen separate residences?
And this is where we pick up our story. Smiley is on his way to his next “home.” It’s in a small, out-of-the-way town called Egnarts, and something tells me, this place is going to be genuinely different.
“Where are we going this time Miss Bowen?” asked Smiley.
“Somewhere far away. It's a little place called Egnarts,” replied Miss Bowen.
“Where exactly is 'Egnarts.'”
“I'm not exactly sure, Smiley. The Supreme Kaiser of Egnarts only sent me an envelope with a map and a note inside. No stamp or anything. Come to think of it, I don't even think the Foster Care Center's address was on it.”
“Really? How stran-”
“Wait! I think I have the note here in my purse. Smiley, take the wheel for a second.”
“Now hold on a tick. I'm only thirteen, I can't drive!”
“Nonsense boy. When I was your age, I could hitch up the horse and buggy blindfolded. Now take the wheel!”
And with that, Miss Bowen let go of the car's steering device. Unfortunately for Smiley, it was when the vehicle was just at the top of a rather perilous mountain-road. I say 'perilous mountain-road,' but it was more of a broken path. One so dangerous, that Mr. Knievel himself would wet himself in fear. Blatantly, it was a concrete maze of death. A 45% grade with hairpin turns, flat banks, and a rather strange sign of a camel crossing the road (abnormal as that may be). This terrain wouldn't be much of a problem for someone with twenty years of World Rally racing experience, but for someone who isn't even old enough to pack his own lunch, it would be a more complicated situation. In fact, it was a very complicated situation, for the car had began to roll down the hill, and Smiley had never packed a lunch in his life.
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“Miss Bowen!”
“Take the wheel Smiley!”
So Smiley did, in-fact, take control of the car. And he made it over half-way down the hill without any major trouble. But good things usually only last a short time. And when time ins no longer good, it is most logically bad. This was one of those times.
“Miss Bowen, please! I can’t reach far enough to make this next turn!” Smiley cried frantically.
“Quit your whining, boy. I’ve almost found it.”
Smiley pulled as far as he could with his average thirteen-year-old arms, and as anyone who has even been that age (and I’m sure many of you have), those arms aren’t exactly yard sticks by any measure (oh how I enjoy puns).
So Smiley yanked the wheel. He was almost around the corner (which to the locals…the local…to Sir Cortomir the Confused was known as the Reapers Ol’ Hangout), and it looked as if he would make it, when a Wild Mountain Camel leaped out in front of the car. If any of you have ever had the privilege of seeing a camel “leap,” you know it can be quite startling. Maybe even startling enough to cause One to let go of the steering wheel midway through a gravely (told you I’m quite puny [look a pun within a pun, I amaze even my great self sometimes]) -named corner. For Smiley, it was just that startling.
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“Found it. Smiley, you can let go of the wheel,” Miss Bowen said.
“I can’t Miss Bowen.”
“Oh quit being foolish and give me back the wheel!” Miss Bowen demanded.
Unbeknownst to the imperceptive Miss Bowen, Smiley was truly unable to let go of the steering wheel. The fingers on his left hand would not unclasp the underside of the wheel, as is common in times of great peril.
“JUST GIVE ME THE BLASTED WHEEL!” tally-hoed Miss Bowen (tally-hoed here means a very great and obnoxious shout, which is generally understandable considering her considerable frustration with the routinely-delinquent Smiley, but not so in this instance ).
“First, Miss Bowen,” Smiley very calmly said, “ you might want to roll down your window and take a look around.”
“Fine boy. If it will get you to give me control of the car back.” Miss Bowen agreed. “But I do have to give you one thing. You sure are a smooth driver. It’s like we’re floating on airgoodgollymissohmygoodnessconflabitwerenotgoingtoma keitchra-”
I would continue Miss Bowen’s breakdown, but his is a family tome. And do you know why poor, old Miss Bowen was babbling incoherently? I’ll give you three guesses, and no, they hadn’t gotten plucked out of midair by a time-traveling pterodactyl, and were presently in the year 1930, gliding due east, toward the bakery of James Dewer, the man who invented the greatest of all crèmeé -filled, sponge cake delights, the Twinkie™ (as I know about eighty-eight percent of you were thinking). So here’s actually how it happened:
The camel had just leaped in front of Smiley, and he was so flabbergasted, that he forgot to hang onto the wheel . This caused the old Buick Regal to sail off of the sheer cliff, right at the apex of the corner. The drop from the Reapers Ol’ Hangout to the forest below is roughly three thousand feet. I say “roughly” because there is one tree that throws the whole approximation off. It is a five thousand year old behemoth nicknamed (Sir Cortomir believed everything should have a nickname, even himself, whose actual name is Melvin Timmermann), appropriately, Fred. Fred is two thousand nine hundred ninety-eight feet tall, and about as wide as your average sport “hero’s” ego.
Through exhausting research and agonizing setbacks, I have calculated the chances of Smiley and Miss Bowen surviving this air-born assault, in any way, shape or form (even taking into account the odds of that pterodactyl), to be one trillobiticus, a number not yet conceived by man, to one. Now, I know what you’re thinking, and you’re exactly right. There is always that one.
The Maroon Macedonia (another Sir Cortomir original) seemed to hang in the atmosphere over the valley for quite a while. And then it actually was in midair, caught somewhere in the upper echelons of Fred. I told you, loyal reader. There is always that one.
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“…ohnoiamtooyoungtoAHHHHH!” Miss Bowen had finally stopped panicking, but the sun was beginning to set, and Smiley thought that they should get out of the tree before dark.
Smiley patted Miss Bowen on the back (he had finally let go of the wheel about a half-hour ago),” Everything will be okay, Miss Bowen. Now, let’s get out of this tree.”
Sniffling, Miss Bowen finally managed, “But Smiley, dear, we’re not exactly in a tree. You might want to check where we are before you open your big mouth.”
“What are you talking about Miss Bowenmygoshiamtoocutetodi…”
Now it was Smiley’s turn to have an anxiety attack. Why, you may ask? Simple, they were in a massive nest. This probably would cause the average person to just stare and ponder. Possibly even utter, “Strange, very strange,” a few times. This would hold true in Smiley’s case too, except the car was tire-deep in the discarded bones of many large game animals of the upper Midwest. There were deer skulls, elk horns, moose hooves, bear claws, and even an old VW Beetle, the most vicious of all small, European cars. This sight would cause most to worry a bit, but it most likely wouldn’t cause anyone to start mumbling incoherently. No, it was the next thing Smiley saw that was the kicker. For in the corner of this nest (or as close to a corner as a circle may have), was what looked to be a large, leathery bird, and no, it still isn’t that time-traveling pterodactyl, which Sir Cortomir has tentatively named Ptolemy the Ticklish.
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Excuse me for the interruption. I had pressing matters to attend to. And by pressing, I mean that my hot cocoa was ready, and It was so delicious that…well if you’ve ever been up north during the winter, you know that hot cocoa is quite literally, the greatest warm beverage ever conceived by man (or woman for that matter). Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, the giant, not-time-traveling-pterodactyl thing. It is to be said that this creature was not of the normal type, for it was not your normal leathery bird. It was a thirty-foot long, ten-thousand pound, naked-blue-jay-type-bird. And it wasn’t your normal exposed blue bird. It was your average, nothing-out-of-the-ordinary, plain Jane, dragony-type-bird. Why? Because it was a dragon. A dragon isn’t even a species of bird at all. A dragon is, however, extremely dangerous, and can breathe fire. Which begs the question? Why would a giant blue-type dragon, who can breathe fire, live in a prodigious nest made of dried leaves and other dead forest stuffs? Do you know? I don’t, and I’m not going to get close enough to find out.
“…pleasepleasepleaseohfiddlesticks!” And with that, Smiley passed out for the night, having forgotten to draw breath through all the rant.
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Smiley awoke to the warm sunlight on his pale face, the gentle rocking of the car, and very heavy breathing. Still unable to shake the sleep from his eyes, he thought it was just Miss Bowen with her obstructed nasal passages, driving on a decrepit road.
Finally, he got the strength to open his eyes so he could see where they were now. But what he saw made his already fair skin even lighter, rendering his lips almost transparent. For he saw two colossal eyes, almost as big as he himself. He slowly turned to see the rest of the dragon curling around the car, and it appeared as if it wanted in.
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“And in this corner, weighing in at an astounding one hundred thirty-five pounds. The Marauder of Mississippi, the Temptress of Tupelo, the All American Gal, Elmira “Queen Kong,” BOOOWEN!”
“Miss Bowen.”
“Bowen throws a right, and now a left. Kong has her on the ropes!”
“Miss Bowen.”
“4, 5, 6, 7...”
“Miss Bowen.”
“8, 9...”
“MISS BOWEN!”
“Huh? Ah Smiley, just two more minutes. I almost have the belt.”
“No, Miss Bowen, please. This will only take a second.”
“Okay, what is it-oh my word!” Miss Bowen exclaimed as she peered into the darkness of the dragon’s pupils.
“Thanks. You can go back to sleep now,” Smiley said mockingly.
“I’m afraid that I’ll never sleep again dear,” Miss Bowen said with quite wide eyes.
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“What do we do now Miss Bowen?”
“I suggest screaming. AHHrmph--!” Smiley put his hand over Miss Bowen’s mouth.
“Shh. We’ve got to be quiet. We shouldn’t spook it.”
“Do you really think a hideous beast like that can be ‘spooked‘ by little old me?” Miss Bowen screeched.
“I beg your pardon Miss, but you’re use of the word ‘little’ is quite out of place, but the ‘old’ part is quite alright. And could you please refrain from making loud noises. I’m very jumpy in the morning before I’ve had my tea. Oh, and if you could forgo the name calling, I’d be in your debt. You see, I’m quite sensitive.”
“Smiley, quit playing around. And when did you develop that incredible English accent?”
“My name is not ‘Smiley’ madam. Its Fernando Johannessbergentine the Fourth, but you can call me the Great Ferdini.”
Sir Cortomir again.
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Smiley sat with his mouth agape for an indeterminate amount of time. That is, until it-I mean the Great Ferdini began talking to him.
“And I assume you are ‘Smiley,” my good boy. How queer a name? Not so much a name as a blunt description.”
“I’m sure yours is much better,” even in his dazed state, Smiley was still able to produce on-the-spot sarcasm. But, being English, the dragon already had a retort for every supposable answer that Smiley could possibly think of.
“I most certainly think it is. ‘The Great Ferdini.’ Sir Cortomir gave me that misnomer when I was just a small draggling. He thought that my fire -breathing was some sort of magic, so he gave me an appropriate magician’s name.”
“Can you do any card tricks, oh Great Ferdini?” feigned Miss Bowen.
“Oh yes! I know many card tricks. Would you like to see one?” queried the Great Ferdini.
“Why not? We’re not about to leave this place anytime soon,” replied Miss Bowen, with just an all-too-familiar air of defeat in her voice.
“I believe that I will show you one of my personal favorite tricks. Just sit back, relax, maybe have a spot of Yorkshire Gold, and enjoy.”
With that, the Great Ferdini took out a considerably massive set of cards, each one the size of three bus doors. It looked like a standard deck of cards, except all the royal heads were replaced with those of what One assumes to be ‘important’ dragons of history (if you own a copy of Who’s who in Dragondom: Taking a Look at the Ages, by Armoondo the Archiver, then you would know what I’m speaking of). He then began a variation of a standard shuffle, except it involved supreme flexibility and aerobatics. It was the most poetic display of card-juggling prowess that the world has ever seen, I’m sure of it.
After all the usual, “Is this your card?” and “What’s that behind your ear?” , the Great Ferdini thought it was time to spring his masterpiece of them.
“Well, now that we have finished warming up, do you two want to see a real trick? I’ve been perfecting it for years,” asked the Great Ferdini.
“Do we really have a choice?” drawled Miss Bowen.
“Why certainly, but you’d be wise to say ‘yes’ if you want to get down from here.”
“What’d you say?” whimpered Smiley groggily, just waking-up from his nap.
“I’ll tell you later boy! ‘Pip pip Jolly Good’ Ferdini, go ahead!” Miss Bowen said emphatically.
“There is no need to stereotype madam, but no matter. Oh, I’m so excited! Wait just one second.”
And with that, the Great Ferdini flew off into the wild blue yonder for an indeterminate amount of time.
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After a while (a while which could not be accurately measured), the Great Ferdini came back decked out in traditional magician’s garb, only dragon-sized. And it was of a color not found in nature. Some would call it neon yellow. Others would call in fire-truck red. Still others would say that it was gray, but only the boring ‘others.’ Whatever hue it actually was, is a mystery. But that’s not important.
“Now to make it formal. LADY AND GENTLEMAN. BOY AND GIRL. MAY I PRESENT TO YOU THE WONDERFUL, THE SPECTACULARDIFOROUS, THE GREAT FERDINI!” bellowed the magician.
Miss Bowen and Smiley answered with some brief, light applause..
“You are all too kind. How about we get down to business? I’m going to need a volunteer from the audience. Do I have any volunteers?”
“Psst. Psst. Smiley, volunteer,” Miss Bowen whispered.
“No Miss Bowen! I don’t want to. You do it. You’re older, and I have more years ahead of me than you, “ complained Smiley.
“I’m sorry you feel that way dear. I guess I’ll do it. Yes Mr. Great Ferdini, I, SMILEY, will volunteer to be your most gracious assistant!”
“Thank you Miss-WHAT DID YOU SAY!”
“Thank you small boy. Will you please come over here to my left side? Hurry now, be prompt!”
All Smiley could do was glare as he trudged his way through the animal remains.
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“Thank you very much Smiley, my dear. Now if you’d only put on this traditional assistant garb, we can be on our way,” the Great Ferdini said, as he handed Smiley a rather skimpy looking outfit.
“You want me to put on this? You’ve got to be kidding me!”
“Ah yes. I thought you might have an inquiry or two. You see, usually my assistant is played by a lady, so naturally, I’ve only a lady’s costume.”
“But as you can plainly see I am not a lady. I am an average, but overly cute, thirteen year old boy,” Smiley replied.
“Put the blasted costume on Smiley. I’m getting hungry!” Miss Bowen snapped. She always got a bit testee when she was famished.
“Fine, but no laughing,” Smiley said defeated, and snuck behind the Great Ferdini to put on the costume.
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“What’s taking ya boy?” Miss Bowen called after what seemed ages, but turned out only to be a minute and a half.
“I look ridiculous!” Smiley called back.
“Just get out here Smiley!”
“Okay,” Smiley almost always did what he was told, but it almost always involved asking him more than once, and usually less than three times.
But Smiley had a reason to be a little hesitative, for what One saw when laying eyes upon this boy was absolutely absurd. I’ll describe it as best I can, and I’ll start with his head. It looked as if a giant parrot had perched right on top of his mop of sunshine-yellow hair. Moving down, as is common when describing someone beginning with the head. A very frilly, and might I add form fitting (for what little form there was), pink and fuchsia dress hung down to about his knees, where high green boots took over. He looked, for lack of a better term, ridiculous. This opinion was confirmed by uproarious laughter from Miss Bowen.
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I don't write, I compose greatness onto media. I want someone to connect with my story on such a level that if I kill-off the main character, they walk around town for a week believing they're a ghost.
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