Lunch Break with Characters

Lunch break with the Characters - In the spirit of "Jessica's Room".
I’ve got water boiling for tea that Jonathan would approve of and I’m heating beans to put on the salad. Yeah, I eat beans on my salad. Lance can stop looking horrified.
Kent is still teasing me over my battle not to give in to curiosity and waste $20.00’s and hours of time to see how in the world someone wrote a “Phantom of the Opera” computer game. Somehow, he misses the glower of Erik who’s sitting silently in the corner. Phantom Erik hasn’t been around as much the last few years. Now he just blends in with the Sentarrian masters who are also fond of black cloaks and manipulation. Poor Tehvoer’s looking ill.
I’m contemplating the chances of getting up at 5:00 to have the maximum hours of uninterupted quiet. I’m not sure I can do it.
Andrew shrugs, muttering, “I do it. And I work in a factory all day.”
“Only for a while,” I defend.
“I do it too,” Karl, of course, jumps at a chance for arguing.
“Well, that’s…”
I glance around the room. Come to think of it, Kael’s usually up before dawn. Darshon gets up just before sunrise – which here is closer to 7:00 – and Erik has such weird hours, he doesn’t know when it’s night or day – and probably doesn’t care.
Tehveor, however, probably gets up and sleeps less than all of us put together – though he doesn’t say anything about it. Tehveor is very protective of his secrets – unlike some of my characters who can’t help but sob their stories.
Jonathan ducks and Karl just glares and tells me that’s my fault for writing him at 2:00 AM when I’m over-emotional.
It’s probably true so I don’t argue.
Jonathan makes no defense and Darshon smirks.
“Oh come on. I have to have SOME character that’s not up at the crack of dawn…”
I glance around the room. “Don’t I?” I have very industrious characters….
But from the back, Erik McTavish’s hand goes lazily up. I breathe a sigh of relief.
I feel better.
Kent has my Oz script and is making a mockery of the charecters, while Karl teases he’d make a great cowardly lion. Darshon’s smirking again. He is continually intrigued that when I stop writing and return to “real life” – I spend my evenings racing across a stage, talking to green yarn that’s serving as a fill-in for “Toto”, surrounded by painted scenes and other people who are pretending to be lions and monkeys and tin-men and talking scarecrows. Though yesterday half the cast was missing, so I was left talking to imaginary people for nearly the entire first act.
Afterwards, they said I was really good at it and I looked like I could really see them.
I can’t imagine why anyone would thinkI was good at talking to imaginary people…
Yesterday I left Jonathan so distressed meeting his future father-in-law, I thought I might try to draw on those emotions for the scene in the witch’s castle. After all, Jonathan is the character with the most luck that he would be the one to get dragged off by flying monkey’s and end up in a witch’s castle, even if he does live in modern-day America. Last night though, it didn’t work and I was closer to summing tears by staying Dorothy – even if the real Andrew says she’s a brat.
She’s not really a brat. She’s just bored.
Darshon and Karl understand.
In the meantime, Charles and Gabby are encouraging me to finish that salad. Charles says I’m restless and looking like Lance.
He no sooner says his son’s name, than Lance pop’s into the room, glancing around a mile a minute. I ask how Val’s doing and he says she’s studying all the time. He shudders, thinking of the books, while Andrew looks wistful like he’s really wishing he could go back to school.
Erik starts figiting, now that his brother is here. He’s glancing around the room, checking for all breakable objects and buttons that shouldn’t be pushed. You know, like fire alarms and emergincy exits.
Kael thinks both of those ideas are really good ones and should be implimented at once into the castle. Galaphy just glares. He’d probably figure out a way to trap people in the exits and make fire come from the spriklers.
Oh. I shouldn’t have said that. Phantom Erik’s perking up in the corner, glancing with intrigue at the man.
I’ll have to send someone over to remind P. Erik that he really doesn’t want to be bad…
Nobody volunteers so I summon Stephen and assign the poor man to the task – and set Karl as a bodyguard, temperarly relieving him of a bad heart – though I’m not even sure that combonation is a good one. Perhaps I should inquire about barrowing Felix from Jess, but Diana sends me a rather feirce glare.
Now I’m nearly finished with my salad. Charles is gently reminding me that I need to stay focused on my work. Darshon’s complaining about the line of books that I’ve put before the second “Secret of Sentarra” – though I think he really just doesn’t like being ignored.

I, Dorothy

No one ever listens to me. I'm quite sure of it. Poor Toto was hurt and scared, and they were too busy moving the chicks to even listen. I'm so lonely, and I hate it when Uncle Henry tells me to stay out of his hair. He doesn't have all that much hair to stay out of, anyway.

Then I tried to talk to Zeke, Hickory and Hunk. They were all working too, arguing like they always do. Sometimes they take a really long time to do stuff, because they don't think it out very well. But I've never had anyone call a sheriff on me, and I don't know what'll happen. Can he arrest me? And even if he doesn't, can he arrest Toto? Toto wasn't meaning to be naughty. Maybe I could tell him that I did it on purpose, and he could punish me instead.

But I don't really want to be punished. Mama and Daddy never punished me much. Not like Aunty Em does. Sometimes she sends me to bed without supper, and sometimes she hits me with her slipper. It doesn't look like it would really hurt – but it does. I heard her tell Henry once that I was spoiled, but I don't mean to be spoiled. I'm just bored. Everything is so ugly here, and there's nothing to do. Even the teacher at the school doesn't know how to answer my questions, and she told me to stop asking them. Nobody else knows either, or they won't tell me, so I have to ask Toto – but even he can't answer, though I feel sure that he knows.

I asked Hunk what to do, just because Toto chases her old cat.

He asked if I had brains. Of course, I have brains. Sometimes I think I have more brains than anybody here. Then he said to go around Mrs. Gulch's place. That would be a good idea in the future, but she's already in town getting the Sherriff. I have to think of something before she gets here.

I wonder what Auntie Em's going to do when she finds out.

But before I can answer him and tell him that, Uncle Henry is back. I like Uncle Henry. He's nice to me, most of the time, and he'll help me sometimes when I ask him. I would ask him now, except he's yelling again, and that just makes me worry what he'll do when he finds out. He hired all the men for their keep, since jobs are so scarce now, but he sure makes them work a lot.

I start to follow him, but he is still mad, so I go to Zeke instead. Zeke never yells at me – or anyone, really. He calls Mrs. Gulch names that I'd get slippered for saying. It makes me laugh every time, but I don't know why. Maybe because it just sounds so funny coming from him. He starts telling me that I shouldn't be afraid of her – which is funny because he always hides when she comes around. I'm not afraid of her, and I tell him so. If I was afraid of her, I wouldn't have run after Toto.

I'm just afraid of what's going to happen when the sheriff shows up.

He says next time she squawks, I need to walk up and spit in her eye. It puts such a funny picture in my head that I laugh. What would the sheriff think? Especially if Zeke did it and not me? Too bad he won't. Just when I think maybe things will be fine after all, someone screams behind us. I think it's Mrs. Gulch but it's Hickory and Hunk laughing. And poor Zeke looks as though he might have a heart attack. I'm pretty scared myself, but I pretend not to be.

Then Auntie Em comes out with cookies, and while she's talking to the guys, I decide I better tell her before the sheriff shows up. Maybe we can find a plan.

I start to tell her again, but she tells me I'm imagining things.

Sometimes I do imagine things. When I first came here, I thought the screech owls were someone being murdered out in the fields. And I woke Uncle Henry when I heard the coyotes, because I thought they were spooks. But I'm not making it up this time. Auntie Em won't listen and tells me to find a place where I won't get into any trouble.

Some place where there isn't any trouble…

Mama said there wasn't any trouble in Heaven. I asked where that was, and Dad said it was behind the rainbow. So I start thinking about that and imagining that the rainbow tipped down to earth, and I could step on it and climb up. I'd see Mama and Daddy and things would be beautiful, just like Mama said. Sometimes I dream that I find them again, and if I could climb a rainbow, that dream would come true. I imagine myself falling asleep and a beautiful angel coming for me in the night to carry me up to the clouds. Then a bird flies out of the tree. I watch it, and wonder if I could fly, if I could just go for a visit.

Maybe. I would certainly fly away from here.

Dear Sheriff

(I'm playing Dorothy and in my search for the child's thought processes behind some of the odd things that she says in the script, I began jotting down ideas for the scene. Here's what came of it.)

Dear Sheriff,
Mrs. Gulch stole my dog, Toto, and I feel it’s only right that I should get to defend him. Toto is a good dog. He was a gift from my daddy. The day we buried Mother, we found him in a puddle beside the road. I picked him up, and daddy said someone would probably come looking for him. I took him home, and dried him off, and brushed him with my own hairbrush. He seemed to be listening to me and I told him what I couldn’t tell anyone else. How much I missed Mama, and how I wished everyone downstairs would go home. The next morning, someone did come for Toto, but Daddy explained how fond I’d gotten of the dog, and how my mother just died from the measles. She got them worse than I did, because it always hits the grownups worse. Daddy asked if he could buy Toto for me, and they said yes. So he gave Toto to me, and that was the last thing he gave to me, because he died in a train crash on his trip the next week.
Toto is a good dog, and he doesn’t mean to get into trouble. He likes to chase cats, but he’s so small that he can’t really hurt them. I usually look out for cats and mice too, because he does love to chase a mouse, and I pick him up when I see one. But I didn’t see Mrs. Gulch’s cat, and Toto squeezed between her fence. I called him, and ran as fast as I could to get into the gate, but before I got there, Mrs. Gulch was waving her garden rake around. The cat was up a tree and quite out of harm’s way. But my poor Toto. Do you know what Mrs. Gulch did? I called that I would get the dog, and she brought her rake down with the pointy edges right onto Toto’s back! He cried and cried, and she would have done it again and killed him if I hadn’t snatched him up. He was bleeding, and I yelled at her, and asked her why she hit my dog.
She said he was a cat killer, and to keep him out of her garden, and that she was going to call you to come take care of him.
But he isn’t a cat-killer. Her cat is perfectly fine. It’s my poor little Toto that was hurt, and now he’s taking all the blame for it.
Please don’t kill my dog.
He’s all I got left in the world – at least from my old life. I don’t have anything else to remember my parents, by except my little dog. So I’ll be stopping by tomorrow after school as soon as I can get there. It takes a long time to walk, you know. If I can just have Toto back, I promise you won’t hear another problem about him or me. Ever.
Yours Truly,
Dorothy Gale
(From Kansas)
P.S. I’m going to bring a whole plate of homemade cookies. If you let me take Toto away, I’ll let you have all of them. We don’t have to tell anyone. I’ll keep him hidden and no one will ever know.

Andrew's Song

((This is a side-story for a character in my novel, "Across the Distance." If you haven't finished the novel and don't want it to be spoiled, don't read this. I wrote it while working on the novel.)

Andrew's Song
Slender fingers quiver on the neck of an old violin, coaxing out sweet, familiar melody. Andrew's song. Eyes closed, his mind is far away, fluttering to the beloved home where tiny fingers were guided to each fret by scarred hands with a gentle touch.
His fingers had been cold before when they played in the snow to earn a few coins. It had served to make them more nimble when they were warm again and being trained for career in school. Those days were gone and they were back to being cold.
What irony. The churning waters that had escorted their family's ship, promising a life full of song, now lay still as glass, bent on destroying the music. His eyes stay closed, refusing to show their fear. His song continues - will continue until his very breathe forces its silence. For his music is all that he has left. He plays for courage. He plays for strength. He plays to calm. He opened his eyes to gaze at the stars. That moon is shining its light into Clara's window right now.
Clara sleeps in blissful ignorance. Is she dreaming of him? Perhaps the moon drapes its light across her face and caresses her ring.
His promise.
His broken promise.
Yet he stays in denial letting his promise play out. He knocks on the door and they are reunited. They marry. He takes care of her. He rescues her. The glaring truth accuses that such fantasies are futile when he cannot even rescue himself. He will face the truth when he must. Until then he will pretend that the cold is from a long walk home. And that the tipping of the deck is really the last hill to climb before he reaches the house. He will not think of anything else. He will only play. Always play. It is his passion, his prayer, and his final plea.
His plea is answered by the screams.
Suddenly, the hill home becomes too hard to climb. The dream is gone. He stumbles, one hand clinging to his violin, the other clutching the rail, as his bow slides down the ship's angle, following the path where the last lifeboat has been released.
He tightens his grip as his feet slip out from under him, fear surfacing in a crushing wave, as he catches sight of the black water looming below. The stern of the ship continues to rise as though it is a giant hand raising them in sacrifice to the gods. He loses his grip - stumbles - rolls.
His violin cracks just like the ship, plummeting back toward the sea. The instrument groans as he tumbles on top of his prize. Strings break, offering a sharp twang as their final melody. One snaps across his face leaving a stinging line. He slams up against a railing, now acting as a floor. He gasps a terrified breath - for though he's brave enough to hand off his life jacket - his only tie to life to a young, blind girl - he is, after all, only a man.
He rides the ship down, clutching the neck of his broken violin into the cold plunge - so cold that it feels as though flames lick up on either side, not only burning like fire but crushing like a rock. The water caves his chest, stealing his breath as though a giant finger has risen out of the sea and touched it, forbidding it to move.
The beloved instrument bobs away, as its master fights to keep his head above water. He cannot swim. Never could. He never wanted to. But he clings tightly to a deck chair, willing himself to stay afloat as his suit becomes logged with icy water. The burning settles on top of his skin, torturing with the prick of a thousand needles, while the cold settles deep in his muscles in an iron grip.
His face and arms burn as though they have been scalded by water. He thinks of Clara. He thinks of his mother. He thinks of ten brothers and sisters, all depending on him. All he wanted to do was to give them what they need - to earn enough money to take them somewhere clean and warm.
He panics, thrashes, and begins to sob as his muscles shake uncontrollably from the icy depths. Clara. He can't even say her name. He's chattering too hard. Their song floats through his head, a small comfort in the storm. And still the moon glints from above. The stars twinkle as if they have a wonderful secret. He expects his body to grow numb, but it does not.
A light glows in the distance. He thinks it's a ship. But it an illusion cause by the northern lights. Something to tell Clara about. He lets himself slip back into his dream. And as the darkness closes in, he sees her face, picks up his violin and music goes on.