HOT CHOCOLATE
by Me
The building was large and seemed to glow in the moonlight. Its mass and beauty seemed to reflect in the silvery pond below it. Kyra Stevenson gazed into the pond’s depths. This hotel was obviously paradise, she realized. This was the place she should stay. Forever, maybe…
Her daydream was splattered on by a white swan making its way across the pond. Kyra shook herself. No hotel was worth staying in forever, no matter how beautiful this one obviously was…
Kyra shook herself again and crossed the bridge.
The hotel looked, if possible, even more magnificent then it had looked from afar. Lucky me, thought Kyra contentedly.
The hotel had costed three times as much as both she and her mother were able to save in two years, and it was her grandmother who had paid for her, as a trip to this hotel is known as ‘The Manly Trip’, to the Stevenson family.
A stay at the Laurem Grande hotel had become a tradition for the Stevenson men, even if it was a few blocks from the Stevenson house. But it was why, Kyra thought, not without a twinge of nervousness, she had never seen her father since he had gone. And it was why her mother had pretended to know nothing about it.
Kyra was a little bit of a tomboy, and to her mother’s great discontent, was selected for for the trip, since her mother had borne no son (and Kyra had the strange feeling this could be on purpose, although she had no idea how her mother would control it).
She put her hand on the door handle, which swung open at her touch. No, wait, she told herself firmly. There has to be something wrong with this hotel. Why do think your father never came back? Although she knew, very well, that this would be infecting her family’s fathers (whom all had went missing).
She took a deep breath and walked through the doorway.
The room was beautiful on the inside, too. Banners lined the silver walls. Nice-looking people attended guests at desks while handsome bell boys whisked around corners with silver dollies stocked with expensive, foreign-looking suitcases.
“Can I help you, miss…?”
“Stevenson,” Kyra said eagerly.
The pretty teenage woman, about Kyra’s age (and who could possibly have been a friend, Kyra noted happily), helped her with her room.
Once in her room, Kyra sank down onto her bed.
She got up just as quickly.
Something was wrong, she could tell.
Kyra nervously backed up and clutched her suitcase. She didn’t know where she got this feeling. It was just something in this room that made her shiver.
She looked up carefully and inspected the ceiling, just as her father had taught her to do before he went missing. When she spotted nothing, her eyes moved to the wall on the right, the floor, and then the wall on the left. Last, she checked everything in the bedroom. Desk, TV, coffee maker, popcorn maker, canopy bed…
You’re just being silly, she concluded. There’s nothing wrong with this place. It was only then did she notice a painting on the wall.
It was small, and would not have been noticed with a quick scan to the wall. She looked carefully at the other walls to see anything she might have missed, her nervousness back a little, but couldn’t find anything. With that done, her attention returned to the picture.
It was of three lines, each about six inches long, placed horizontally on top of each other, about two inches apart from each other. The top one was red, the middle one was blue, and the bottom one was gold. And it was across from her bed.
What a strange picture, Kyra noticed. Pictures are supposed to mean things, you’re not just supposed to paint three messy lines on top of each other and sell it to a hotel as grand as this for, like, $1,500 or something, she mused, taking her best guess on what the average painting was worth. No, actually, $15 at most, she thought, grinning.
Two hours later, Kyra was settled in bed with a shower cap (Lice nerves) . She took a sip of her hot chocolate and closed her eyes.
Kyra woke up again to find it was 2:26 a.m. Go back to sleep, she told herself. She was just beginning to doze when she noticed the strangest thing: The picture now only had two lines—the blue and the gold. I still don’t see why someone would put a painting as ridiculous as that in my room, she thought.Anyway, I’m probably so sleepy I just can’t see the red, she told herself, taking two sips of hot chocolate.
Kyra woke up again at 4:38. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I just go to sleep like a normal person? She thought bitterly. Then, like a spell, her eyes drifted toward the painting. This time, she could only see the gold line. That’s weird. I’m fully awake, she mused, reaching to take a sip of her hot chocolate (probably chocolate milk now). She was grasping the handle when she saw very clearly that one of the fabric accessory things was dropping into her mug of chocolate milk. She pulled the dripping piece of fabric out and ditched the chocolate milk. That’s strange. It was up high when—
She stopped.
Kyra knew the problem now. Trembling, she brought her head slowly upward and found herself nose-to-nose with the once-high (but still very heavy) canopy. No way!!
And the horrible realization dawned on her. The ceiling had been lowering. She stepped out of bed and looked at the painting. It wasn’t a trick of sleepiness. All three lines were there. Fully awake now, she rolled under the bed just as the canopy fell. The door flew open and in came who appeared to be the manager of the Laurem Grande.
He lifted up the canopy, his face expressionless. He’s probably used to seeing dead bodies, Kyra thought bitterly. She held her breath.
“No one’s there,” the man said.
Meanwhile, Kyra was weighing her chances. She was on the second floor, so if she raced out from under the bed and poured her chocolate milk on the man, and then jumped out the window, it would only be about, oh, a twenty foot drop. She could take a sheet with her and use it as parachute, if she was fast (and she had never used a parachute before). Yes, that’s what she’d do. She spotted her mug and pushed into a hunched running stance. One, two, three. She jumped out from under the bed, seized her mug and flung it at the man. She hopped she’d made a good diversion. She ran around the bed, yanking a sheet while she was at it, opened the window, grasped the sheet, and jumped out.
Somehow, Kyra managed to make it safely to the ground. She abandoned her sheet and ran. Home.
POINTLESS
By Me
Average Girl
Rain patters on my head
Water soaks my feet.
My hair is clinging to my neck
My arms are crossed across my chest.
If I was rich, I would have silk
And be inside
I hate it here. It's so...pointless.
Poor Boy
My face just smells like smoke
My clothes should not be clothes.
Pain so piercing I can't feel it.
Shoveling up another load of coal
One after the other,
So they don't mean anything
Anymore.
It would mean a proper meaning
If I was average
It's just...pointless.
Rich Girl
If I was meant to be rich
Then destiny was wrong.
Sitting here, on this chair.
Hands so soft they're squishy.
I'd rather be a slave,
Like that boy that works for me
I'm never doing anything,
And feeling so...pointless.
Rain patters on my head
Water soaks my feet.
My hair is clinging to my neck
My arms are crossed across my chest.
If I was rich, I would have silk
And be inside
I hate it here. It's so...pointless.
Poor Boy
My face just smells like smoke
My clothes should not be clothes.
Pain so piercing I can't feel it.
Shoveling up another load of coal
One after the other,
So they don't mean anything
Anymore.
It would mean a proper meaning
If I was average
It's just...pointless.
Rich Girl
If I was meant to be rich
Then destiny was wrong.
Sitting here, on this chair.
Hands so soft they're squishy.
I'd rather be a slave,
Like that boy that works for me
I'm never doing anything,
And feeling so...pointless.
WRITER'S BLOCK: THE MAKING OF HARRY
By Me
Gently tapping
Her Number Two pencil
On her lined piece of paper,
Joanne Kathleen Rowling
Thought for a little while.
Rubbing her story-model’s
Adorable bushy mustache
She thought about how
She felt about giving
Ernest Hemingway
Credit for “A Farewell to Arms”
Or “For Whom the Bell Tolls”.
About giving
Emily Bronte credit for
Writing “Wuthering Heights”.
She’d always known
Time-travel was possible
And she’d written about it
In “A Wrinkle in Time”,
Before giving it away
To a different author!
She’d always been shy…
And now it was definitely
Time to get recognized.
But what to write?
Joanne wasn’t sure.
She looked to her mustache model
For help, but the
Plastic head and
Yarn facial hair
Gave her none.
Buzz. Her phone goes off.
“JK” is written in texting shorthand.
Joanne reaches for her
Cheap phone, thinking that
She could totally get a better one.
“J.K. Rowling”.
The name pops into her head.
Of course!!
Abandoning her phone,
J.K. Rowling reaches for
Her pencil again, head full with inspiration.
Her mustache model
Seems to look proud.
“You look Durs-ey,”
She laughs,
Proud of her own word.
Dursley, it seems to say back.
And inspiration carries her away
On its back.
“Mr and Mrs Dursley of Number 4…”
She writes.
This story will not be given up.
The rest is complete history.
Her Number Two pencil
On her lined piece of paper,
Joanne Kathleen Rowling
Thought for a little while.
Rubbing her story-model’s
Adorable bushy mustache
She thought about how
She felt about giving
Ernest Hemingway
Credit for “A Farewell to Arms”
Or “For Whom the Bell Tolls”.
About giving
Emily Bronte credit for
Writing “Wuthering Heights”.
She’d always known
Time-travel was possible
And she’d written about it
In “A Wrinkle in Time”,
Before giving it away
To a different author!
She’d always been shy…
And now it was definitely
Time to get recognized.
But what to write?
Joanne wasn’t sure.
She looked to her mustache model
For help, but the
Plastic head and
Yarn facial hair
Gave her none.
Buzz. Her phone goes off.
“JK” is written in texting shorthand.
Joanne reaches for her
Cheap phone, thinking that
She could totally get a better one.
“J.K. Rowling”.
The name pops into her head.
Of course!!
Abandoning her phone,
J.K. Rowling reaches for
Her pencil again, head full with inspiration.
Her mustache model
Seems to look proud.
“You look Durs-ey,”
She laughs,
Proud of her own word.
Dursley, it seems to say back.
And inspiration carries her away
On its back.
“Mr and Mrs Dursley of Number 4…”
She writes.
This story will not be given up.
The rest is complete history.
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