It’s been forever since I’ve attempted to write a story. After abandoning my grand aspirations of becoming a world class grocery bagger, I wanted to be a writer for a good long time. (If that sentence gave you pause, I suppose more of my superhero origin tale will go in the currently theoretical ‘About Me’ section of this blog. Stay posted.)
But then more advanced schooling happened, where you ceased to have free period or recess, and then work happened, and then just plain life happened. My big ole writing callus shrunk to a whisper of what it used to be. I forgot what it felt like to have an idea and write it out just for the hell of it. I lost my creative outlet and perhaps more dramatically, a piece of myself. Have you ever done that? How many of us used to play an instrument or draw or paint – key words ‘used to?’ So today I decided. It’s time to feed the soul, and I’m not talkin’ Chicken Soup. (Do people still buy those? Is that still a thing!?)
Time to practice writing! I declare that I will have no shame, in attempt to curb your expectations. I’ll start here with an intro to an idea I had a few years back. Note that it is most certainly YA.
Source of Dingspiration: Rip Van Winkle, Washington Irving
“Three million, two hundred and forty two thousand, six hundred and fifty seven.”
Liv’s mind rattled off last year’s production statistics, desperately grasping for something known to calm herself in the darkness. Her heart was violently attempting to escape from her chest and abandon her body; it was pounding so hard it felt like a thousand ultra bouncy SuperBalls had been shot into her ribcage and were now violently jettisoning off her innards in sparkly multicolor chaos. Hence the choice in quoting SuperBall production statistics. Good one, me, she thought wryly. She would choose mental imagery with one of her least favorite toys of all time. Ever since they’d fallen from fad-dom in the 1970s she’d been waiting for the day they could cease to produce brightly colored SuperBalls.
“Liv? What’s going on?”
She heard her brother suppress a yawn.
Her arms whipped blindly through the black. One arm found wall, other arm impaled itself on the outstretched elbow of her twin brother Liam.
“Oh thank Noel.”
She jumped into his capable familiar arms and frantically kissed those sleepy ignorant cheeks. Liam had no idea what was going on. And she would do everything in her power to keep it that way.
That’s when the floor became the ceiling became the wall and the darkness exploded with light.
Liv squinted into the sun, using her hands to push herself to her feet. They had landed smack dab in the middle of an impeccably manicured lawn, in front of a gleaming pillared mansion straight out of the Stepford Wives. A daffodil head had been partially severed and was swinging back and forth, like a sick clownish omen for what was to come. Liam was still sprawled on his back in his boxers, yawning, not at all disturbed by the recent chain of events. She swore if looking at him weren’t like looking into a mirror, she’d seriously question if they were related at all.
She brought her eyes closer and rummaged for clues in the vessel that carried them. There was very little to find. A couple packages. Ripped open to reveal a couple ironic cat-themed Christmas sweaters and slightly less ironic checkered pants. A round cylindrical something. Upon closer inspection, a scroll. Handwritten no less.
Elvess Protection Program: A Pilot
I, Ludvig Gustavson, hereby declare, on this day, January 15, 2017, the commencement of the first Elvess Protection Program Pilot in all of Elven history. Praise our infinitely wise needlessly generous and forever ingenious god Noel.
I also hereby gift the most prestigious honor of participating in our first ever Elvess Protection Program Pilot to the Boyson twins of Stavanger, Liam and Liv.
The Pilot shall last from January 15, 2017 for a period of exactly one year, during which Liam and Liv must prove elven ability to assimilate into human society. Given the elven gift of eternal youthfulness, the elven twins shall participate in human schooling rituals at the University of California, Los Angeles.
Evaluation will be based on human perception; no human may suspect that either elf is non human at any point in time. Behavior will be closely monitored, and the following assimilation criteria must be met.
- Each elf must complete 2 full semesters worth of human schooling.
- Each elf must make one ‘BFF’ and one arch nemesis, or ‘frenemy,’ with a human.
- Each elf must have at least one romantic relationship and one breakup with a human.
Liv closed her eyes. She could see Santa Ludvig’s hated jowls laughing at her from inside her eyelids. What the scroll failed to outline was what would happen if they failed. She was the only one who knew what was at stake.
Noel. They were so screwed.