Possession

Do you know how hard it is to write a novel?  Well, imagine trying to create life and you might be able to understand a small part of the difficulty.

In my book it started with creating a world; a place habitable for the characters; a place where imagination can run wild and around every turn you see beauty and death; a world of adventure, despair, and peace; a world worth more than life itself.  The next step is to create the people that can call it home and can touch the hearts of the audience.

And then you only have to sit back and let the story flow, for when you have what is needed for a world to spin, it can only grow and develop from there.

That’s when I noticed that it was actually happening, the book was writing itself.  Hell, I thought it was going to be backbreaking work trying to figure out the plot and what was going to happen in the future, each small step the main character was going to have to take to make it to the final conclusion.  That’s not what was happening here, the words were going on to the pages as if a ghost in a white shiny pinstripe suit, pale skin, and white crazy hair spreading out in all different directions, the deathly image of Einstein himself, were standing over my shoulder with a pen letting the words role out of him.  I can tell you I was pretty scared because this was not natural; I was staring, eyes wide open, sweat running down my face, hands clammy, and then I did the only sensible thing a person could do; I booked it.  Threw the notebook I was writing in right across the room, jumped off my bed scattering all my notes in my wake and was downstairs in the kitchen of my family’s two story house before you could yell, “My notebook is possessed!!!”
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I was not really sure what I was thinking when I decided to tell my parents; but, I wasn’t expecting to be laughed at when I did so.  Well, I guess the way I went about doing so wasn’t the best way.  I mean, how would you react if some eighteen year old came running into you shouting about his notebook being possessed?

In the first place my parents weren’t the best people to be telling about this type of thing.  My mother is a fifty year old psychologist and my father is a wizened old professor of history at Michigan State University.  Not the best candidates for a low down on paranormal activity in their own home.

All the same I didn’t mind being laughed at since they lost all their joy in life when I moved out on my eighteenth birthday, and I made sure to point that out to them when I had finally calmed down to see how ridiculous I was acting.  Oh no, I still believed my book was being hijacked by some paranormal extremist, but I started looking at the bright side, I was getting a free fortune when I eventually had the book published.  Plus, I was going to be paid for reading the book instead of writing which is what I would rather do for a profession, but who ever got a steady pay check for reading books?

Well eventually my parents started to get bored with our conversation that had some how gotten onto the subject of what Einstein would be doing in heaven with so much free time on his hands.  So I headed back to my old room which now was sort of a mess with papers all over the room and my notebook lying in the corner spread wide with the cover facing up.  The rest of the room, besides the mess of loose leaf papers, was pretty much bear.  I had moved out a month earlier and had taken everything out of it besides the bed and a desk in the corner under the one window.  The room looked dead with the only livening thing about it being the blue painted walls and red carpet.

Slowly and careful of not crumbling my notes anymore, I made my way over to the corner with the notebook.  Picked it up and opened it up to the last page I had been on.  There were now ten more pages that had not been there before.  Not that there had been much before it either just the first line, “Breathing hard and fast John ran on swift feet.”

(Italicized) "He heard shouts and the sound of heavy boots chasing after him.  A jolt of fear seared through him; even though he would have thought it impossible he started to run even faster.

After what seemed like an eternity of dodging through trees and splashing through streams, gasping and unable to breath John sat down against a tree.  He was exhausted and sweating profusely even though it was quite cold outside.  All around him was silence and he could hear no sounds of his pursuers.

Wearily he looked around at his surroundings; all of it was strange and unfamiliar to him.  There was a strange glow to his left, and unconsciously he got to his feet and started towards it.  He swept brush and branch out of his way as he went.  Once through he came upon a small clearing.

(Normal Print)John woke to a start with the sounds of banging on the door.  Stumbling he got out of bed and headed to the door.  He wasn’t aware of his surroundings because his eyes seemed to be glued shut, but his feet seemed to know where he was going because he ended up at the door without tripping over anything.  He opened the door and outside was standing a tall lanky kid about his own age with shoulder length hair and large brown eyes that seemed to have seen much in their short lives.  He took in John’s sleepy and confused gaze and just started to laugh.  This startled John even more because some how this person seemed familiar but a name wasn’t coming to him and even more he was dressed as if he worked in some renaissance festival with his grey tread worn tunic and deer leather pants with a belt made of crude thick leather that was tied instead of having a belt buckle.

“What’s the matter with you, you look like mother has hit you over the head with her large spoon” chuckled the stranger.

Memories rushed in at John and he remembered growing up with this kid, Drostan, and their family with their father, Drystan, and all the times they had together.  Drystan, teaching them how to mold metal with heat, making the different goods that they sell in their forge to make a living, hunting for the first time and taking down a stag, John being given a young dog from the neighbor, the dog being raised to hunt with John, then the sight of his dog dead with a jagged black arrow sticking out of his side shot by the local lord, the lord sneering at John saying slaves don’t deserve fine animals such as dogs, John crying for days, and growing up and getting his first stripes from the harsh whip of the local guards for defending himself when accused of stealing..."