I listen to Anne’s booming voice as her green eyes are wide, and her whole body describes an epic adventure scene. Her brown curly hair dances like a maniac from the breeze that sifts through the trees, and her nose crinkles as she suppresses a giggle. It’s my favorite time of the day—lunchtime. I sit on a fallen tree trunk as I write Anne’s words in my weathered brown school-issued notebook as she stands in front of me acting out a fight scene between pirates. I try to suppress my giggle as she jumps next to me on a stump and pretends to fight an imaginary pirate. When Anne tells stories, it’s about buried treasures and pirates. When I tell stories, it’s about detectives and solving mysteries. I enjoy all stories, but my favorites include adventures where characters must follow clues to solve a mystery. There are a select few mysteries that I can check out at the school library since the Cold States have banned most of them, but there’s a small section left, mostly checked out by me.
I can hear the other schoolchildren in the distance playing running games and jumping rope near the schoolhouse. We are nestled in a forest next to the Community Garden. Blanketed by large limbs of leaves and wildflowers. A magical forest, I like to call it. The Community Garden is used for science class to learn about plants and to grow vegetables and fruit for our school lunches. Next to it sits a small forest that most either avoid (due to its dim lighting and not wanting to ruin their school clothes) or simply don’t realize it even exists. For Anne and me, it’s our magical forest. It’s where we create stories. Sometimes, Norman comes by and begs us to add scenes about robots and zombies. Norman is Anne’s younger brother; he is a few years younger than us. The silly age of seven. We make a deal with him that if he sits on the stump and quietly listens, we will add his ridiculous ideas.
“Tell a story about robots. Please!” Norman shouts and pleads with his eyes wide and his body twitching. He has just sprinted into the forest, sweaty forehead and red-cheeked. He stands behind me and jumps up and down, anxiously waiting for an answer. We roll our eyes with a smile, and we humor him as Anne continues with a story about robots.
“They land on a deserted island, away from parents and teachers. They live in treehouses with cupboards filled with candy bars and a fridge full of milk,” Anne dramatically shouts.
“What about the robots?” Norman’s face scrunches with disappointment.
“I’m getting to that, Norman. Now don’t interrupt my story again, or you will be banished!” Anne sasses at him with a stare that makes him sit quietly on the stump next to me.
“One day, the robots came to invade the treehouse and take over the island, but the children did not give in, but they gave a fight . . .”
Norman stands up in excitement, and before he can shout another line of the story— “Norman!” A little red-haired boy shouts as he runs into the forest.
“Come on, Norman, come catch frogs with me.” The little red-haired boy’s eyes plead.
Norman and his friend quickly run off, and Anne rolls her eyes at her brother but then smirks. We both look at each other and giggle, the birds are singing their early afternoon song, and I can hear the bell ring in the distance. We quickly gather our belongings; we dare not be late. We can’t risk being banished from the magical forest. And Miss Ernest, our teacher, has a firm belief in quick obedience.
Crystal Lynn Writing 