The Writer's Apprentice

                              Chapter One
                  Survival Among Deprivation

  I was four years old when I said my first word. Uh-huh. It was Deprivation. Nothing special, huh? Of course, that’s what my parents thought of it. ‘Mama’ or ‘Dada’ were completely out of my vocabulary by five years of age. I wanted bigger and better things to say. Things that would change everything. I was reading Charles Dickens by the age of six. I knew that reading would lead up to writing, and writing was my passion. I was never allowed to go to the library, though, and a simple notepad was completely out of the question-by law of my parents. They were nice people, but they were also terribly afraid that if I wrote, I would suddenly become outrageously famous and rich, and I would move away. That, in their view, obviously led up to my having no discipline. We can’t have that, now, can we? Well, that was exactly how my parents saw it. The whole confusion was when I read my thirty-seventh book, Time Stops for No Mouse. I had just finished reading it in my mother’s bedroom, when something caught my oh-so-observing eye. A diary pad. It was sitting on my mother’s dresser, so I looked at it. Mom never wrote anything except her signature and bills. I picked it up, and engraved on the back was:                                To Macleine- if you will spare me the time. I could barely make out the script. It was tiny and in a foreign print to me. I opened it- blank. I opened the dresser instinctively, and shuffled through the drawer. My mother was not home often, and from experience, I could name everything in her room. Nothing had ever changed- yet. I threw yet another skirt to the floor, an addition to the great mound that lay below me. Finally, I found it. Exhausted, I grabbed my Eagle’s feather from the bottom of the empty drawer and shoved the (once folded) pile of clothes in its place. I ran to my room with the feather in hand.   



                            Chapter 2
                  Only I can keep my secrets

    I narrowly dodged my bedpost as I fell into my room, pulling the door shut behind me. I hopped onto the stool in front of my desk. Still sitting, I pulled one of the many drawers completely out of its space in my desk and snuck a look behind it. My inkwell. I had it in the first place because a man had dropped it on the street, and he hurried off so quickly that the only thing I could do was hide it. I placed the feather on my desk beside the inkwell. I had waited so long for this--- I began to write.


                      Chapter 3
                      I am not a good liar

  The Amazing Adventures to Helena Palace… By Utopia Quail  I thought about it. It was good. Real good. I wrote more. It all started when- The door opened. Then it closed. Was it mom? No. Dad? Possibly. “Utopia! Come out of that horrid room for once!” It was dad. I panicked. “I’m um- in my room! Ah- don’t come in!” I frantically searched for the drawer. Where was it? When I got to it, I shoved it along with the inkwell into the space and pushed in the drawer. Just as I did that, my father came in. “What in the world are you doing? Where did you get that feather?!” Uh-oh. Forgot the feather. “Um, I found it on-on the ground! In our driveway!” He scoffed. If I had been observant about what was going on behind me, I would have noticed black sludge dribbling out from behind the drawer, and the inkwell cork in my hand. Luckily, I had flung the book into the other drawer, and it was now safe as I lied to my father. He stared behind me. I stared at him. “What is that?” he inquired. I looked where he was looking and, indeed, I saw black ink dripping precariously from the drawer. In moments, I had grabbed the book and dashed out the door. I am not a good liar, but I am a very fast runner. That seemed to be all the skill I needed right now.


                            Chapter 4
                Not Exactly Comfortable

  I sprinted through the field in front of our house. My heart was beating faster than the speed of light, and occasionally I would get my bare foot caught in a tangle of weed. Once I reached the end of the field,  I felt for the journal. It was gone. I searched all the way back, but it had fallen hopelessly into the tall grass- gone. Forever. I fell to my knees and heard a thumping in the ground, where my head lay. My dad- not good. I straightened my self up, and an ink-stained hand grabbed my arm aggressively and pulled me. I viciously tugged from my father’s grasp, but my arm turned burgundy and tears trickled down my face. I kicked- and there I lay on the ground. Arm-twisted, and father abused. My father had left me, and ran back inside.
       
                      Chapter 5
                                Gum?

I limped slightly as I traveled through the forest. The mist in the air clung to my face, and made me spit. Eventually, I decided to circle back, the evening turning into black night. I was just about to start back, when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a gentle sputter of light.  I forgot the pain in my arm and leg and started to dart towards the brightness. It flickered, and I was scared it would disappear like a forgotten dream. I kept running and, as the light got brighter, I could just scarcely make out the outline of a small, shingled cabin. I had never been so relieved in my life. I knocked on the door, but no one answered. I knocked again. “Didn’t I already tell you to get away from my house!?” a distressed voice called from inside. I whimpered, and knocked again. “Alright, I don’t want to buy a time share!!” “I’m not here to sell you anything.” “Well then why are you here? You want my autograph? Huh?” I was astonished. I opened the door. A withered and troubled man sat at a desk, a pencil in his trembling hand. “I’m, ah, having a moment. Writer’s block, actually. Could you leave me alone?” His tone of voice was softer now. I reached into my pocket, and pulled out my last stick of raspberry gum. “Gum?” I asked him. “Why, would it help? Really?” “Probably.” He unwrapped the foil and popped the gum into his mouth. He chewed for a moment, and then “Brilliant!” He exclaimed. “By golly, I’ve got it!”


                              Chapter 5
                  I got a job accidentally

“Would you like to accompany me in my writing?” the man asked cheerfully. I smiled to myself, and then stuck out my hand. “Utopia Quail, at your service.” He shook my hand. “I’m Laveidem. I’m a writer, as you could have guessed.” I looked around. There was the desk, and then the rest of the room was empty. The walls were one big and radiant window, which seemed to display the outside like a famous painting. Laveidem looked at me carefully, and then said, “You look quite shaken. Can I get you something?” I wished I could refuse, but my stomach felt like a giant hole, and I was getting weary. “Some dinner would be nice,” I sighed. “I’d be glad to have you, but should you contact your parents first?” Laveidem asked. I thought of my dad. “Well, my father has gone on a perilous journey and won’t return for any matter. He is trying to rescue an ancient jewel from a bottomless pit. His very fate depends on whether or not-“ The writer stopped me. “This all sounds very interesting. Please, come with me and sit down. Tell me everything.”


                                Chapter 6
                      Quite the imagination

I told Laveidem that my mother was a slave to a maniacal race of power seeking Indians, and that I cared for my twenty brothers and sisters. I also told him that I had three weasels that could speak, and as they did so, they argued quite frequently. Laveidem found my story quite entertaining. When I was finished and almost out of breath, Laveidem stood from his chair and declared, “You have quite the imagination, Utopia.” “Huh?” He walked to the kitchen and took a couple of open cans out of the cabinet. Then he reached into the refrigerator and took out a tub of chicken broth. He poured in most of the cans’ contents and mixed it with the broth. Then he stuck it in the oven and leaned on the stove. He said, “I mean, your mother is completely normal but forbids you to write, your father is a construction worker and is almost never home, you are a lonely only child, you have no desired pets because of your allergic reaction to animal fur, and that leaves troublesome weasels completely out of the question.” I didn’t notice that my mouth was agape. “Wow.”


                              Chapter 7
                  Chicken broth and waffles

  As the oven timer clicked finished, Laveidem took out his concoction and stirred it more. Then he reached in a drawer, pulled out a spoon, and handed the tub to me. I took a small sip of the soup he had made. It tasted awful at first, but then sank into me and rippled through my stomach. It made me tired, and soon enough I fell asleep, my head resting on the arm of the sofa. I woke up the next morning having absolutely no clue where I was. I only remembered the man. “Laveidem!” I called down the corridor, sunrays peeking in through the windows. “You gave me soup last night that almost killed me! I fell asleep for so long, and- and…” The smell of sausage and maple syrup hushed me. “Are those waffles you’re cooking?” I asked, forgetting completely about my annoyance. Laveidem laughed deeply, and then nodded his head yes. “Go out and check my desk. There should be something there for you.” He nodded toward the window-filled room. As the toaster popped, I saw a large file on the desk. I assumed that this was the gift, and I opened it. Inside laid several papers, all written on. I pulled one out, and it read: Utopia Quail, Time Seeker and Lion Tamer

                                   


                          Chapter 8
                        My very own story

  I read on. The story told of magicians, dragons, the past, the future, and of course, me. I was popped in the middle of it like a misplaced piece of machinery, but still the story was wonderful. I thanked Laveidem repeatedly, and each time I did he said that it was my own work, not his. I stayed with the writer until I was nine years of age, (having left my home at seven) and enjoyed my life thoroughly. He saw me as inspiration, apparently. Throughout my stay, he told me of his great dreams. Becoming a well-known writer, publishing the perfect story. All the things he had done, but I had yet to accomplish. Many months had passed and sometimes I wondered how long I would live with Laveidem. He also said that he was once famous, but then was so foolish as to quit when he was at the top. Then he was forgotten, and all his books discarded like trash.



                          Chapter 9
                      On my ninth birthday

  Like I said, I stayed with Laveidem until I was nine. Then I decided to move out, and travel to try to find my family again. He was upset, but understood. He insisted I stay one more night, though. That very night, I found a different file on Laveidem’s desk. I pulled out the first paper. It read: Charlotte Island
I read on. It was about a boy about fourteen that was kidnapped by pirates. It bypassed my story by a hundred words, but wasn’t finished. When I left, I took the story with me. I was going to finish it.


                            Chapter 10
                  The traveling storyteller

I spent most of my time traveling, and telling stories for a living. I didn’t have to make much money, because Laveidem had supplied me with enough cash to last me for three years- literally. I never ran out of entertainment, either, since I often visited villages where little children gathered around me, and asked for one story after the next. I always got more than my fair share of attention. It was one stormy day as I sat under a weeping willow tree that I reached into my bag and pulled out Laveidem’s story. I searched for a pen. My ballpoint pen was all I found, but it would do. The story left off where Buck had been searching for his father. I continued the story… Buck plopped a steaming hot cake onto his plate and walked out of the kitchen, still calling to-
The rain started to die down. “I better keep traveling,” I thought. I crept out from underneath the tree and started to walk, with my backpack at hand.


                          Chapter 11
                        De’ja’vu

    After I had walked for several hours, I found myself wading through a path of roots. I felt a strong familiar feeling, and started to run. Halfway through the field, I tripped. I looked down to see a journal lay sprawled on the ground, the page wide open to: It all started out when… and then ended abruptly. I tore out the first page, and blew a sheet of dust off the second. Remembering everything, I took out my ballpoint pen and started again. I worte: I was four years old when I said my first word…