Never Mind

First of all, welcome to Nevermindia.

You’d better make yourself at home, because you might be staying here for a while - in fact, for the rest of this story.

You might want to know that we’re currently outside a mansion - a very grand mansion indeed. I am going to add some turrets and extra chimneys to emphasise my point. That’ll give the owner a shock when he notices. He hasn’t noticed yet, though, because he’s inside, along with our main character - speaking of which, I should be talking about our protagonist, not the building. So let’s move on.

Our protagonist is in one of this house’s many bedrooms, one of the smallest. If we just peek through this window here -

-Oh dear. I didn’t mean to shower them in broken glass. Ouch, one of them’s bleeding already - does that need stitches? Do I need to create a hospital, too?

Um, let’s just say that never happened, and observe our pair in a more... classic way. That is, the narrator-esque way, in which you can stalk someone without them noticing and chronicle every single minuscule thing that they do. Not fun, but inevitable.

Anyway, let’s start by watching the man.

The man is tall and slender, especially because of his slim, elegant, neatly tailored (VIOLET!) waistcoat (indeed, he has absolutely no taste whatsoever). Dark hair (with too much gel) hangs almost casually over his smooth forehead (but you can tell it isn’t that casual because of the gel), and his black, rectangular glasses hang precariously on the edge of his nose.

These spectacles, however, do not hide his eyes. His eyes are like a girl’s. Thick, curly lashes frame their delicate shape, while their deep hazel colour gives them a (deceptive) air of innocence.

These eyes are what our main character is now staring into, and I can (finally!) move onto his description.

Our protagonist is, sadly, quite disappointing. For a start, he only reaches up to the man’s waist. He has chubby cheeks and an angelic ring of golden curls, and is nothing more than a boy.

He is immaculately dressed for one so young - velvet crimson waistcoat, real gold buttons, plumed hat, et cetera, et cetera. Yet this extravagant beauty is unfortunately lost due to the demonic glare he is currently firing at the man sitting before him.

Seriously. You can almost see the daggers shooting from his otherwise adorable chocolate eyes. The man is unfazed, though, which is almost a pity - after all, the boy is trying so, so hard to slaughter him with the power of his mind. But alas, it is not to be.

The man stares at the boy with a nonchalant, patient expression, waiting for him to begin.

(Oh, and for the record, the boy is currently sitting on a bed, his chubby little arms folded on his chest, plump lips twisted into a childish pout.)

The boy arrogantly tosses his head, glowers at the man for a few more seconds, and finally declares, “I command you to tell me your name, scoundrel!”

The intended effect of his words is completely destroyed due to his ridiculously high-pitched voice. Honestly. It sounds like a toddler screaming to be noticed at a conference (not that a toddler would be in a conference in the first place, thankfully). Even the man appears to be startled, and - oh, my - is that a faint hint of a SMILE there?

He gives a polite cough to hide it, then sighs forlornly. Taking off his glasses, he slowly folds them, then starts playing with them between his fingers. I’m getting really sick of calling him “the man”, so I’ll just make him oh-so-coincidentally blurt out his name soon. Not right now, though - that’d be weird.

When he speaks, his silky voice is neither warm nor patronising. “I believe it would be adequate if you told me your name first, young man.”

The boy’s face positively reddens with rage. “How dare you speak in such a manner to your superior! How DARE you!!”

“Superior?” The man glances up with calculated cynicism. “What do you mean by that?”

“I am your superior!”

“Why so?”

The boy stands, sweeping up a magnificent cloak, which he tugs free from between the mattresses it was caught between, and pompously sneers at the man (who is still taller than him, despite sitting down). “Because, you villain, I am none other than Lord Woof Woofling the five thousand, nine hundred and twenty-seventh!”

Even the serene man cannot help himself from bursting into laughter at this outrageously ridiculous name. I mean, Woof Woofling. And a lord. That’s just brilliant. He would never have thought of that.

Woof is furious at the man’s helpless chuckling. He raises a bejeweled staff, which has magically appeared in his hand (courtesy of yours truly). “How dare you scoff my superiority, you rascal!”

The man is still hiccuping with laughter. “I... um... heh,” he manages, wiping tears from his eyes. “Right, hah, let’s um, move on, shall we?”

He takes a few more steadying breaths, clears his throat, and his voice returns once again to its cool, calculated tone. He fiddles with his glasses some more. “So, Woof... lovely name, by the way... now that we’ve gotten past that, um, little misunderstanding, I guess I should also introduce myself.” A thin-lipped smile. “You can call me Dallas.”

Woof’s mouth twists into something akin to a smirk. “Dallas? What sort of a name is that?”

Speak for yourself! Dallas almost splutters, but manages to control himself. He is a fine, exemplary man. He’d be perfect if he weren’t secretly obsessed with baby squirrels, which he keeps in a corner of his bedroom in a very sophisticated series of tunnels.

“It is a name given to me by my deceased parents, and that I ask you to respect,” he replies instead, not a trace of exasperation in his gaze.

He turns slightly to a table (which has also magically appeared) beside him, upon which lies a single sheet of paper with a series of indecipherable scribbles on it - because actually, his handwriting is so perfect that nobody else in the whole of Nevermindia can read it.

“So you’re ten years - ”

A strangled squawk, halfway between that of a shaven goose and microwaved donkey, cuts him off. Woof’s face has turned white with terror and his eyes bulge, staring in horror at the man’s hands.

Now, this man’s family has unfortunately had a long, long history of heart disease, which I am inventing right now for plot purposes. Yes, both his grandfather AND his father have suffered from heart attacks, and they’re both dead now. Therefore the sight of the miniature dragon abruptly spawning from his glasses might have stimulated a bit too much of a shock for poor, poor Dallas.

His heart splutters, coughs, and, with a final complaint perched on its metaphorical tongue, stops.

A myriad of expressions flit across this man’s usually calm face as he drops the dragon (which turns back into a pair of glasses as it hits the ground). Bewilderment, panic, confusion - his hand, clenched into a fist, flies to his chest; he gasps, then takes another breath, and another. He tries to take a fourth but can’t. He oh-so-dramatically glances towards the heavens, his other hand reaching for some distant unknown figure, pain etched into every single one of his features... and finally collapses.


Oh dear.


What have I done?


I appear to have just killed off one of the most important characters in my story.

Ouch. This is not good. I admit I got a bit too carried away. My bad, my bad. I shouldn’t have done that. Not to mention poor little Woof, sitting there watching a man die before him. That could have dreadful psychological repercussions.

Um…

Let’s rewind, shall we?



“So you’re ten years old.”

Dallas’s glasses stubbornly refuse to become a dragon this time as he raises his beautiful girly eyes to Woof’s, quickly judging the boy’s character. It’s another skill of his, and it’s very useful - almost as useful as his uncanny ability to tell whether or not someone has lilies in their garden, just by looking at them. He really can, I promise.

A fierce pride burns in Woof’s eyes, along with withering contempt towards all those he deems beneath him (which is everyone). Dallas nods to himself. He’s met people like this before - pampered, aristocratic brats.

Should I really have taken him in? he wonders, slightly concerned. He’ll eat me alive before he accepts my help. I needn’t bother.

But Dallas, you DO have to bother. That is the whole POINT. This story would be USELESS if you didn’t bother.

This is all your idea, isn’t it?

Yes. Yes, it is. Don’t ask me why.

Did you have to make me take care of such a... problematic child?

As a matter of fact, yes. And you know why? Because… because again, for plot purposes, you can’t have children. That’s right. You are physically incapable of having children.

Of course I can’t. That’s obvious.

What? Why?

I’m gay.

...Oh.

Well, that’s awkward.

A screech suddenly cuts through the room -

“What am I doing here?!”

Oh, perfect timing, Woof! How, uh... coincidental. Yes. VERY coincidental.

Dallas barely suppresses a sigh. (Oh yes, I know all of my characters’ secret feelings.) “What do you mean?”

“WHY am I so unjustly kept in this disgusting place?”

Now, first things first, this house is NOT disgusting. Quite the opposite, in fact. All of its fabrics are of the highest quality, such as the sheets on the bed and the plush carpet - both of which Woof is ruining by being anywhere near them. Intricate details are carved into the mahogany bed: pictures depicting ancient stories of... um... dragons. And... and chameleons. And Hetalia. And if you don’t know what Hetalia is, I will NEVER talk to you again.

Dallas frowns. Not only has this impertinent fool insulted his home (which he is very proud of, him also being an aristocrat and all), but he is concerned by a sudden thought that this boy may actually not know why he is here.

“Are you... aware of what happened yesterday?”

Woof scowls. “Well, I was busy minding my own business, bossing my tutors about, and then suddenly some imbeciles came and dragged me away. I woke up and I was in here. YOU have a LOT of explaining to do, rascal!”

Dallas places his glasses on the table, takes a deep breath, and meets Woof’s eyes.

“I’m sorry, Woof, but your father passed away yesterday morning.”

Now, when someone is informed of their father’s death, the usual response is disbelief and grief. Tears. Sobbing. Endless packets of tissues become a necessity.

Not Woof, however. His eyes widen with shock, he blinks, and a slow, confused smile tugs his mouth into a charming grin.

“So - wait - now I’m the new Earl of Woofford?”

Startled, Dallas takes a moment to reply. “Uh... I... I guess so.”

“YES!!” Woof leaps to his feet and struts around the room, obviously delighted at the prospect of more power. His companion stares at him in disbelief. What is WRONG with this child?!



Right. Things are getting boring. It’s time to add something else to the scene.

Um…

I know! A kasa-obake!



Well, I’m half Japanese. It’s inevitable.

So yes. I have conjured a kasa-obake. It’s a bit small, but it’ll do, I guess. You can call it a ‘karakasa-obake’ if you want, although it doesn’t make much of a difference.

What are you looking at me like that for?

All right, fine. Since I’m aware you probably have no idea what a kasa-obake is, I’ll tell you a few things. ‘Kara’ sort of means ‘old’. ‘Kasa’ means ‘umbrella’. And ‘obake’ means ‘ghost’.

If you add a massive yellow eye, a disgustingly wide mouth, a sweet little blue hat, a foot instead of a handle and a long, winding tongue, I think you can figure out the rest.

The kasa-obake hops happily on the floor, blinking innocently at Woof and Dallas and licking its own hat. They are obviously staring at it in horror.

Woof starts to scream.

What exactly he screams cannot be repeated here for... moral reasons.

Dallas is appalled, both at the loathsome creature and at the content of Woof’s shrieks. He hastily scrambles out of his chair (scrambles is a lovely word, isn’t it?), snatches Woof’s sceptre, and viciously strikes at the poor kasa-obake.

Unfortunately for him, the sceptre goes straight through it. It IS a ghost, after all.

Even more unfortunately for him, the kasa-obake is now angry. It was in a good mood at first, but people trying to kill you (again) with sceptres isn’t exactly the most lovely thing they can do.

I have no idea if kasa-obake factually have any powers at all, but I’m going to say this one does. Oh, yes. This kasa-obake, whom I shall name Fred, has the malevolent ability to... um... well, kill you with a well-aimed curse, I suppose. You can’t get much more malevolent than that, can you?

Fred’s curse is something like:

“Isilvhb svt lkytuva bveoiuta letuya lakvu jethhhhhhhhhh!!”

And for the record, before my more naive friends infuriatingly ask me, that is NOT Japanese. In fact it is as far from Japanese as possible. You know why? Because it’s pronounced “cardigan”. That’s right - “car-di-gan”. In case you were confused. Which you might have been.

So the now furious Fred faces Dallas, its one accusing, disconcerting eye glaring at him, and - to the pair’s untrained ears - spits “CARDIGAN! CARDIGAN!” over and over with particularly vicious intent.

The first curse misses entirely and soars out of the open window (which I now slam shut), accidentally hitting a blade of grass instead, which dies, all alone.

The second one, however, ricochets off a tall iron lampshade and hits Dallas straight in the back. His knees buckle, his face suddenly turning ashen as he tumbles onto the nicely carpeted floor. Fred, satisfied, disappears.

Bright, glistening blood leaks from one of Dallas’s lovely, lovely eyes as he bites his lip to keep from crying out and



NO, NO, NO!

I have GOT to stop killing my characters!

What is WRONG with me?! Do I feel SATISFIED now, eh? Why does repeatedly killing Dallas within my first chapter give me so much joy? It’s sick. It’s twisted. I disgust myself.

I hereby refuse myself permission to kill him. Or Woof. Lonely blades of grass are fine, but not main characters, no, no, not at all. That is NOT acceptable.

Please forgive me, and allow me to delete that untimely death. Again. I’m sorry.

Let’s pick up from before that mess occurred.




...I have no idea if kasa-obake factually have any powers at all, but I’m going to say this one does. Oh, yes. This kasa-obake, whom I shall name Sprout, has the malevolent ability to... er... make flowers pour out of people’s mouths with a well-aimed curse. You can’t get much more malevolent than that, surely?

Fred’s curse is something like:

“Cardigan!”

Which appears to be English. But oh, no - you couldn’t be more wrong. In truth, that is pronounced “haddock”. Yes, “had-dock”. Just to clarify. Which isn’t an English word either, but is in fact a curse in the ancient language of umbrellas.

You learn something new every day.

Sprout gets his revenge by striking Dallas with a truly well-aimed “Cardigan!”, which the man obviously ignorantly misinterprets as “Haddock!”.

The poor man doubles over and all sorts of different types of multi-coloured flowers start streaming from his helpless, open mouth. For good measure, rainbows and butterflies (and a few misplaced knives) also leap from it. Lovely, isn’t it? In any case, Sprout, now satisfied, vanishes.

Woof is disbelievingly gaping at the hapless aristocrat. The thought of helping the man never crosses his mind, which just goes to show that, well, don’t spoil children.

He just stares and stares at the growing pile of daffodils, tulips, roses, buttercups, bluebells, marigolds, violets, pineapples, knives and most certainly NOT lilies spilling all over the carpet. Meanwhile, it doesn’t look like the curse is going to wear off anytime soon.

Because I’m bored, I’m letting it continue to plague my character some more. After a few minutes it’s getting boring again, so I finally let it stop.

To get rid of the mountain of flowers (et cetera), I hereby magically teleport them to the wedding of a woman who is also a gardener, making her very, very happy. Nobody can say I don’t have a heart.

[To be continued?]