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Rosetta Retired Staff 1,872 POSTS last seen Aug 5, 2020 8:28:28 GMT -5	Writing Camp! Jul 8, 2011 19:48:00 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by Rosetta on Jul 8, 2011 19:48:00 GMT -5 Hey, so currently I'm in a writing camp. At the end, we make an anthology, and submit writing to it. This is the thread I'll use to post what I'm putting in the anthology. Feel free to comment on anything here! -Rosetta
	^^Made by the excellent Shrimp!

Rosetta
Retired Staff

1,872 POSTS
last seen Aug 5, 2020 8:28:28 GMT -5

Writing Camp! Jul 8, 2011 19:52:36 GMT -5

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Post by Rosetta on Jul 8, 2011 19:52:36 GMT -5

This is an HP parody I wrote after some of the kids in the camp. I've changed the names and everything, but the kids at camp, at least, know who they are. It has a lot of inside jokes from camp, but it can also be funny to outsiders. A lot of the ideas aren't even my own, just some the other kids thought of. Here we go:

Once upon a time, there was a ginger named Michael Corloni. Michael got his letter to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry when he was 11 years old and in excitement ran into the wrong barrier at Kings Cross, resulting in a rhombus-shaped scar on his forehead. He was alone because his parents had died in a skiing accident when he was a year old. His parents had such love for him that as they were hurtling towards that tree, they tossed their child and he landed softly in a pile of snow. Sometime later, an Eskimo found him and raised him as his own. Now, finally on the right platform, Michael bounced eagerly, upsetting his pet pig, Princess Priscilla. The Hogwarts express arrived and he got on, joining a compartment with a short, blonde girl named Trisha.

"Ginger!" she screamed, trying to escape through the window, but it was sealed shut.

"Wait!" he cried. "I don't steal souls...anymore!" She relaxed and then saw the rhombus-shaped scar on his forehead and gaped.

"Your scar!" she exclaimed. "You're the one who vanquished the Dark Lord!"

"No, actually, I ran into-" Michael began, but Trisha cut him off.

"You vanquished the Dark Lord!" She glanced around and lowered her voice. "His name was Pat, but we don't speak the name..." Deciding to play along, Michael nodded, and Trisha looked quite satisfied with herself. "I could tell from your scar!" Michael nodded again and settled in his seat to gave out the window.

Many miles away, Professor McGonagall awoke from a week-long hangover with an awful feeling that she had perhaps sent an acceptance letter not to its rightful recipient, Harry Potter, but to a muggle named Michael...She dismissed the thought as she went to get some more fire whiskey.

Back in the compartment, Michael and Trisha heard a hiss behind them. Princess Priscilla the pig mooed in distress. They turned to see a brown-haired girl named Chelsea standing before them, hissing. They stared at her in confusion. "I'm an animagus!" she announced. "I'm in my cat form." She leapt up onto a seat and began licking her hand. Noting their bemused expressions, she hissed, angrily, "I'm just grooming myself!"

Trisha leaned over and whispered to Michael, "Too much butterbeer that one..." Chelsea continued to groom herself until they reached Hogwarts. They went across the lake in boats, but on the way Michael was attacked by the Lochness Monster. Chelsea saved him with her cat powers, however. Not even bothering to thank her, Michael proceeded into Hogwarts, as the cat-girl stared off at something unknown.

They all had to be sorted into their Houses and as Michael waited in line, he shuddered nervously. Trisha had briefly explained the Houses to Michael. Gryffindor was for all the brave kids, Slytherin for all the bad kids, Ravenclaw for all the smart kids and Hufflepuff for all the losers. "Legend has it there's another House called Huffledoor for all those who don't fit anywhere else, if any..." Trisha had also said in a hushed tone, "but, that's totally false…I think…"

Michael was still worried. Finally, his name was called, and he went up to put the Sorting Hat on. It slipped over his eyes and he heard a deep voice in his head. "A Ginger, eh? Very interesting...better be HUFFLEDOOR!" Michael's heart skipped a beat as the sorting hat was removed. Huffledoor?! Really?! Nervously, he glanced around and saw the empty Huffledoor table in the corner: a small kiddie table. He joined it slowly and anxiously watched the rest of the Sorting. He could see the others staring at his scar and wished there would be more kids in his House.

Luckily, both Chelsea and Trisha were put into Huffledoor, as well as a few more misfits. Finally, Sorting completed, the headmaster Albus Dumbledore stood. Professor McGonagall stared longingly. It was common knowledge that she had the hots for Dumbledore, who clattered to the front in his three inch heels, straightening his low cut robe.

“Welcome to another year,” he called, happily, bouncing on the balls of his feet, which is quite a feat in high heels. “A quick word to all those in the Huffledoor House. We haven’t yet gotten a dormitory for you, so you’ll be living with Hagrid in his hut! Don’t worry! He’s an outcast like you like guys!” The Huffledoors glanced at Hagrid who waved his huge hand and continued eating a large slab of raw and bloody meat. They all groaned. “I’m so happy to see some of you here tonight!” Dumbledore winked seductively at Michael. “Now, let’s eat!”

The feast stared, but Michael couldn’t eat. He had a funny feeling that the Soul Snatcher’s Stone was hidden underneath the school and someone was out to steal it…His scar burned as he looked up. Eyes falling upon a hook-nosed teacher, who glowering at him, Michael’s scar stung more than ever…but it was probably because he had hit it just hours earlier. Still, Michael was uneasy. After the feast, the Huffledoors trooped down to Hagrid’s hut with the giant. The hut was small and hot. A baby dragon chewed on a rat in the corner. “Here we are,” Hagrid announced. “Oh, and beware of my illegal dragon, Norbit…he likes to eat children…” Michael settled on the floor next to the table where Chelsea was scratching the wood. Michael wondering about the Soul Snatcher Stone all night until he finally feel into a restless sleep…

Classes started the next day. Michael liked all of his classes especially Defense Against the Dark Arts, which was taught by a nervous wizard named Professor Squirrel who wore a babushka. Trisha fell in love with History of Magic and Chelsea raced after the caretaker’s cat, Mrs. Norris, screaming, “My brethren!” Everything was going well until Dance class, which was taught by the hook-nosed teacher, Professor Snape. The second Michael walked into the room, Snape smacked him across the face. “What was that for?” Michael cried.

“For bein’ an idiot!” Snape cried with a Brooklyn accent. Michael held up his hands in surrender and answered in the same accent.

“Oh-kay,” He took his seat. Snape spent the rest of the period going over ballet routines and criticizing Michael’s moves, saying he looked more like he was doing hip-hop. After class, Michael sought refuge in complaining to Chelsea and Trisha about Snape on the way to Quidditch lessons.

“Corloni!” Michael turned at the sound of his last name to see Ayanna, one of the Slytherins marching towards him. “Heard you are the new celebrity just because you’ve got some stupid triangle-shaped scar on your forehead!”

“It’s a rhombus!” Michael cried, snatching up his broomstick as they arrived at the Quidditch pitch. Ayanna rolled her eyes and picked up a broom. She put her hand out and tugged at Michael‘s nose, then pulled back with a fist. “Got your nose!”

“Give it back!” Michael roared as she hopped on her broom and soared upward. Michael flew after her.

“Why are you here?” Ayanna called. Michael was unsure of this himself, so he remained quiet. Ayanna pulled back her arm and threw a rock at Michael ,which wasn’t exactly his nose. It hit his chest, but he didn’t even flinch, for he didn’t feel pain. Ayanna rolled her eyes and flew to the ground. Michael had a fleeting image of playing for the Quidditch team and catching the golden snitch in his mouth and winning the game…then remembered that Huffledoor didn’t have a Quidditch team.

Halloween came quickly. The Great Hall was adorned with decorations. Even the Huffledoor table was decorated. However, the festivities didn’t last long because Professor Squirrel proclaiming, “Troll! Troll! Troll on Facebook!” Then, he passed out. With a great clatter, everyone rushed to the computer lab, and Snape, Michael noted, was the only one not there. Even more, when Michael checked, Snape’s Facebook page was the only one not affected by the trolls, whilst everyone else got made fun of on their own page (Michael got “Go back to Azkaban, Dementor!” on his). Something suspicious was going on, and Michael had an awful feeling it had to do with the Soul Snatcher’s Stone…

Michael forgot all about because classes started against the next day, and Snape acted normally. But, then one day, he saw Snape sneaking off during dinner, and Michael knew he had to do something. That night, he confided in Chelsea and Trisha about it. “Oh! I’ve heard about the Stone!” Trisha told him. “It can allow you to steal souls and keep them in a jar…it used to let you steal hearts, and keep them in jars, but then Christina Perri came out with that song about it, revealing all the secrets, so Nicolas Flamel changed it. It also makes you an amazing dancer!” Michael and Trisha shivered in fear.

“So, that’s why Snape wants it,” Michael said, slowly and quietly, so the other Huffledoors wouldn’t hear. “He heard me criticizing his dancing and wants to be better at it!” Trisha gasped.

“Then he can use his dancing skills to take over the school! And eventually the whole wizarding world!”

“Or maybe Professor Squirrel is after it because he wants to aid the Dark Lord,” Chelsea said in a dead-pan voice, staring off. Michael and Trisha rolled their eyes at each other, and Michael tossed her a sack of catnip.

“Let’s go tonight…we can use the mysterious Invisibility Quilt I got for Christmas! C’mon!” So, Michael, Trisha and Chelsea donned the Quilt and snuck out of the cabin, past the sleeping forms of their fellow Huffledoors. They walked back up to the school and up to the 3rd floor corridor, knowing that was Dumbledore’s favorite number. They went through the door marked, Do Not Enter: Soul Snatcher’s Stone.

As soon as they entered, they found themselves face to face with a giant three-headed…duck! Chelsea hissed and then leapt out from underneath the Quilt and began attacking the duck. While they were distracted, Trisha and Michael continued on to the trapdoor and through it. Once through it, they found themselves in a dark passage. Up ahead was light, and Trisha and Michael ran for it.

And there they were, in a giant room facing a giant chess board. It was clear to them they had to play the board to get across. “Oh shoot,” Trisha muttered, “I’m not too good at this game…the pawns are the ones that if you lose them all, the game ends, right?” Michael pulled out his wand, the one he’d find lying under a tree, but in doing so, dropped it. Sparks flew out from it (which was unexpected, because it had done nothing all year), and then finally a bright burst of fire that wiped out the entire chessboard. Trisha and Michael gasped and glanced at each other, their faces sweaty from the rush of heat. “That works too,” Trisha said weakly, astonished and they pressed on. Finally, they came upon a door. Trisha stopped short. “I don’t think I can go on,” she told Michael. “I’m not like you, I don’t have a rhombus scar or anything!” Michael tried to explain again that the scar was only an accident, but Trisha wouldn’t hear of it. “I’ll go back to Chelsea now, and then I’ll try to contact Dumbledore, which we probably should’ve done in the first place! See you, Michael!” And then she was gone and Michael was alone.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, Michael pushed open the door and gasped. He had walked into a dimly lit room. A cracked mirror stood in it, but that’s wasn’t what made him gasp. It was Professor Squirrel…WEARING HIS NEW BABUSHKA IN BRIGHT PINK!

“Looking good, Professor!” Michael said, approvingly, and Professor Squirrel whipped around. He smirked.

“Surprised to see me, Corloni?” he spat. “Didn’t expect me, did you?”

“Uh, no, actually…” Michael replied. He glanced at the mirror. “Oh cool!” He rushed forward to check out his reflection. “Wait, this mirror-” he stopped, staring at himself. In the mirror, he didn’t have red hair…he had brown hair! And he was holding a bright orange stone, which he then put in his pocket…and Michael felt something in his pocket in real life. He had the stone!

“What do you see in the mirror?” Squirrel asked. “It shows your desires.”

“Uh,” Michael hesitated, “I see myself with brown hair.”

“Liar,” another voice spoke and startled, Michael saw that Squirrel was removing his babushka. The pink piece of cloth fell to the ground.

“Let’s see what you make of my master,” Squirrel said, turning around. Michael yelled out.

“PAT!” It was true. For Squirrel had a face protruding from the back of his head…the face of none other than Pat, the Dark Lord…the face that Michael at least assumed was Pat’s. He looked like a llama, which was exactly how Trisha had described him.

“What’s in your pocket?” Pat asked, and Michael froze.

“Uh, my wand…” he muttered. Pat narrowed his eyes.

“The other pocket.”

“Listen, about the catnip that‘s there,” Michael began, defensively, “that’s for my friend, she-”

“The other thing you have in your pocket,” Pat commanded and Michael slowly took out the stone. “Now give it to me…”

Michael paused. What could he do? Trisha had said that the stone let you steal souls…but according to myth, Michael could already do that! And, he could dance! He could-“Cancel out the stone!” he cried. “I can cancel out the stone! See, I can dance!” Michael pop, locked and dropped it and then pirouetted across the chamber. “And!” he roared at Pat, who looked simply horrified. “I can steal souls apparently! I cancel out the stone!” And with that, Michael crushed the stone into dust. “Haha! See that!”

He moved forward to rub the dust in Pat’s face. As soon as his fingers connected with Pat’s skin, Pat screamed, obviously in extraordinary pain. What Michael didn’t know, and didn’t care too much about, was the there was one thing Pat didn’t understand (other than why parents would go skiing with their year old child): Love. So, seeing as Michael’s parents had died to save him and he was a ginger, his touch burned. Pat screamed and reared back. At that moment, a rock from the sky fell on Michael and although he never felt pain, other than that in his forehead, the rock still knocked him out and he fell…and fell…and fell…

Michael woke up sometime later, lying in the hospital wing. Dumbledore was standing over him, grinning madly. “Hey, babe-I mean, Michael,” Dumbledore coughed. “How are you?” Michael’s head ached, but he still sat up.

“Wait, what happened? Where’s-” Dumbledore held up his manicured hand to silence him.

“Squirrel is gone, you beat him! As is Pat!” Dumbledore patted his arm, his hand lingering awkwardly on Michael’s shoulder for a moment. “You beat him, kiddo. Great job, stay gold.”

He stood to go. “Wait! Professor,” Michael called to him. “Are my friends okay?”

“Last time I checked Trisha was telling everyone that you cast some amazing spells, and Chelsea is currently playing with a ball of yarn on the second floor. All is well.” Dumbledore turned around again, but then stopped. “Oh, and Michael…?” He winked. “You don’t need lumos to turn me on.” And he was gone, swinging his hips from side to side as he went.

Michael got out of the hospital wing the next day, the day they all left. Feeling everyone’s eyes once more on him, Michael carried his stuff from Hagrid’s hut with the rest of the Huffledoors and to the Hogwarts Express. As they were leaving, Michael looked at Hogwarts one last time, gleaming in the sun. Chelsea and Trisha were making their way towards him-well, Trisha was walking, Chelsea was pouncing as she went, making Michael smile. As much as he wondered how he was even a wizard, why everyone thought he had vanquished the Dark Lord as a child, what he did actually learn at this school, and why his friends were complete freaks, Michael had learned a valuable lesson. It was that-

“Michael, Michael! Wake up!” Michael awoke with a start to see that he was back in writing camp. Not Hogwarts, writing camp. Michael opened his notebook, sighing, but someone coughed. He looked up and saw that everyone was staring at him, confused.

“Uhm…this is kinda embarrassing,” someone began, an older woman, almost like a teacher, “but why are you here?”

^^Made by the excellent Shrimp!

Rosetta
Retired Staff

1,872 POSTS
last seen Aug 5, 2020 8:28:28 GMT -5

Writing Camp! Jul 9, 2011 12:37:31 GMT -5

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Post by Rosetta on Jul 9, 2011 12:37:31 GMT -5

This is a short story I wrote based off of Desma, Tabby and Flight's relationship and Desma's death. I changed all of their names, except for Tabby's as well as a couple of things, but it's really the same deal. So, enjoy!

The house was locked up by the time the girls got there. In a week, the house would likely be filled once more with a new family, new girls, new lives, but the ghosts would never fade. Tabby stared at the leering cold house-not a home, just a house. It was set on a backdrop of chilly gray sky. There weren’t even trees around. A shiver passed down Tabby’s straight spine, as she glanced around anxiously. “You sure about this, Charlotte?” she hissed.

Charlotte didn’t respond, and Tabby paused from peering down the row of houses to see the girl with a bobby pin, picking the lock of the house with ease, as if she’d done it many times before. “Charlotte!” Tabby cried, rushing forward, her heart racing. “Don’t do that! Someone will see!”

Charlotte rolled her eyes, yanked out the bobby pin and turned the knob, pushing the door open with one hand. “C’mon,” she said, quietly, “don’t you want to see what’s inside?” Tabby fidgeted uncomfortably on the doorstep.

“Do you think Lucy would’ve minded?” she asked in a whisper, eyes wider than saucers.

“Doesn’t matter, she’s dead,” Charlotte replied, harshly and without further ado, she disappeared into the dark house. After a moment, her disembodied voice cried out, impatiently, “C’mon, Tabby!”

Butterflies fluttering in her stomach, Tabby glanced around once more, but no one was around. Then, feeling slightly sick, she hurried after Charlotte into that dark house. Her mind was still in a frenzy. Tabby hadn’t known the older girl, Charlotte, as well as Lucy had. So, it had come as a great shock to find Charlotte at her door at four in the morning last week. The 17 year old had spoken quickly in short one-word sentence, “Lucy. Sick. Come. Now.” And Tabby had taken off after her into the deafeningly silent, inky night, as usual not bothering with shoes. If her mother woke up, Tabby hoped she’d assume she’d gone out running an hour earlier than usual. Being the faster runner, Tabitha arrived before Charlotte did and waited in front of the doctor’s building, her heart beating wildly, wondering what in the world could be wrong. Sick? Lucy? How?

Huffing, Charlotte had finally reached her and yanked Tabby ahead of her, hastily explaining that Lucy had been rushed here instead of the hospital for reasons Tabby was still unaware of. When they had gotten into the room where Lucy was (after a brief shouting match between the doctors and Charlotte, who demanded they be let inside), Tabitha could smell the fresh, lingering death in the air. She paused, peering about anxiously. The room was small, lit by only a little lamp. There was a cot and on the cot was-Tabby’s stomach lurched when she saw her, curled up under blankets that could not warm her thin, bruised body. Lucy’s lips were dry, cracked and bloody, while great black tufts of hair fell to the floor with the slightest movements she made. Tabby felt as though all the air had left the room and she slumped against the wall, chest heaving. Refusing the urge to ask what was going on, Tabby watched Charlotte approach Lucy and kneel down. Tabby was unable to move, frozen to the spot, much like the other woman in the room, who Tabby only saw now hunched over in a chair, her face tearless. She had to be Lucy’s mother.

The world seemed to fall away around the 13 year old. How did this happen? She’d always assumed Lucy, who was four years older than her, was just thin and fragile. She convinced herself that the girl didn’t sleep enough resulting in her yellowing, waxy skin and bloodshot eyes. She’d hoped that the grotesque bruises were from an accident or something. Now, it was clear that rather than an outside force, some silent, internal enemy was inflicting Lucy.

Tabby had no idea what to do. She stared at Charlotte, who was pocketing something as she straightened up. Her heart was leaping in her throat, and her legs were weak. As Charlotte moved away, Tabby saw Lucy looking at her. And when she spoke, Tabby broke. “Tabitha,” she said in a cracked, glass-like voice that was fading with each syllable. That’s when Tabitha Laise ran. Because that’s what she did best. She ran and ran. In the mornings, before school, after school, anytime she could. She ran from the piling unpaid bills on the table, from her mother’s dry coughs, from the disapproving social worker. She ran and ran from the problems. But, even she knew that she could never outrun them. They rode piggyback, they lingered, they never left. Charlotte had found her curled up in an alley sometime later, crying her eyes out. “You knew, didn’t you?” she whispered, not bothering to wipe away the tears. Charlotte, who stood there awkwardly, never good with confrontations, shrugged.

“Yes.”

“And why didn’t she tell me?”

“She didn’t want to scare you,” Charlotte answered, bending down, examining Tabby’s bloody feet. She had stepped on a piece of glass, but she didn’t care. The pain in her foot was nothing compared to this. “It was terminal leukemia. She didn’t lose her hair or anything because she refused treatment. They brought her to the doctor’s to die there…she knew it was going to happen…”

“So, she’s…?”

“Yes,” Charlotte replied, shortly, pulling off a strip of fabric from her shirt, and wrapping it around Tabby’s foot. “Let’s get you home before your mother worries.” She walked the girl home, a tense silence between the two, while Tabby mused how in the world she hadn’t noticed. She had figured Lucy was just sickly from the day Tabby literally ran into her and they became friends…she’d convinced herself of it…she’d hoped…she’d prayed…still, the inevitable truth was that maybe she’d known all along, but she didn’t want to accept it yet…

Now, in Lucy’s house, sold just the day before by her mother, who wanted to move in with her sister, Tabby shuddered. She could feel Lucy’s optimistic aura wavering in the entry hall. Charlotte was nowhere in sight, and Tabby moved slowly, nervously. Mrs. Thorton had left all the pictures on the wall, all of her and Lucy, smiling, laughing, the works. Tabby tried to look away, but her eyes find one particular frame. It wasn’t a picture. It was Lucy’s birth certificate…

“Lucy was the only one,” a voice said, and Tabby jumped, her heart skipping a beat, but it was only Charlotte. She stood, like a ghost, her dark hair hanging around her, dressed in all black. “The rest of her siblings were miscarried, still-born, whatever. So, her birth certificate was hung up when she made it…better than a bunch of death certificates, huh?”

Tabby didn’t answer, and moved out of the room, into a darker hallway following Charlotte. She’d seen her own birth certificate, too. It still had the sticky note attached to it by the doctor, proclaiming: pre-mature, not expected to survive. But, she made it. She and her mother made it…and they were still trying, but they were doing it. Tabby’s mind flashed back to the time she brought Lucy to her house. She’d been kind, amiable to her mother, who told Tabby after she’d left that she loved her new friend…now she’s gone, Mom, Tabby thought…

The girls slunk through the hallway, past the open door leafing into Mrs. Thorton’s room. As Tabby peeked inside, she could see that the bed was unmade, sheets on the floor in a heap. It was as if the woman had left in a hurry, which she probably had. Sensing the distress left behind Tabby hurried off, and bumped into Charlotte, pressing her into the door she was in front of. Charlotte responded by rounding on her, testily. “Watch where you’re going, will you?” she snapped, “I-“ she stopped, realizing Tabby wasn’t even looking at her, rather gazing over her shoulder, mouth open. She slowly turned to see that the door she’d been pushing into was slightly open, revealing a sliver of teal wall. Teal was Lucy’s favorite color. Without turning, Charlotte said shortly, “Right door, good work, Tabby.”

The two entered the room, moving as slowly and carefully as possibly. Contrary to the rest of the messy house, Lucy’s room was exceedingly tidy. The bed was made, her perfumes were lined up neatly on her dress along with some stacked paper. Her bookshelf had every book in place, and it all seemed to be in alphabetical order. Everything was in order. A black garbage bag lay full next to the nightstand which had a closed book on it. Charlotte slowly approached the bag as if it were a wounded animal and opened it. “It’s clothes,” she said softly after a moment. She gestured about the room. “I think she did all this…she knew was going to…” Charlotte trailed off, and Tabby turned away, tears in her eyes. To busy herself, she went to the dresser, gingerly picked up a perfume bottle and sniffed it. The soft odor of honey and sugar found its way into her nose. She pursed her lips, remembering this scent. It had always lingered on Lucy’s pale skin and her oversized clothing. She was reaching for another bottle when Charlotte spoke behind her.

“She was quite the fan of poetry,” she commented, casually, flickering through the pages of the book that was on the nightstand. “She’s even highlighted some of the lines…” she turned a few more pages. “Every poem she’s highlighted, actually, well…except one…” Charlotte turned the book around to show the black and white page to Tabby, who, from her position, couldn’t make out specific words. “You know, rage against the dying light…something like that…Dylan Thomas…this one isn’t highlighted…” Charlotte rolled her eyes at Tabby’s blank face. “It’s about not dying,” Charlotte filled her in, “or at least trying not to. Funny, isn’t it?” Except there was no humor in Charlotte’s voice, only blind irritation, as she put the book down. Tabby watched in amazement as Charlotte began feeling under the mattress as if nothing had happened. It was astonishing how the easily the girl could hide herself away behind annoyance. Tabby sometimes wondering what it was like to be her, then decided those waters were best left untouched.

Still feeling as though she were robbing a grave, Tabby turned her sights to the closet door. The bronze doorknob gleamed at her, begging her to open it. Curiosity overcame the bubbling doubt, and Tabby approached the closet door. Closer to it, however, it seemed larger, much more intimidating and less inviting, Still, she needed to open it. Glancing around to see that Charlotte was still busy (yanking the comforter off the bed), Tabby grasped the cool doorknob, turned it and pulled it open.

Instantly, she gasped as an avalanche of white descended on her. A second later, she realized what had fallen out of the closet and was now resting at her feet were paper cranes. A lot of paper cranes. Too many for her to even take in with her eyes. What had Lucy been-“What’s going on?” Charlotte’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “What’s that mess? Tabby-” Charlotte stopped short herself, and Tabby could feel her, just behind her, staring at the beautifully formed paper cranes. Tabby was at loss for words. The cranes were pure white, gorgeous and just something Lucy would make with her delicate hands. “Oh…” Charlotte said, softly, but Tabby didn’t turn. She didn’t want Charlotte to see her cry. Because the sudden appearance of the cranes had made her realize something, something sad, awful, and heart-wrenching: That Lucy was cold and dead after all…

Tabby wasn’t sure how she found her way onto the ground. All she knew that she was sobbing and sobbing that, she was gone! She was gone! She was gone! And Charlotte was at her side, rubbing her back, awkwardly, trying to reassure her that it would, be alright! Be alright! Be alright! But, Tabby knew better. It wouldn’t be alright and after a moment, Charlotte pulled back the lie that hung heavy in the air. “Fine,” she said, quietly, “it’s not going to be okay…but…” She couldn’t go on. But what? There was nothing. She was gone. Finally, sighing, Charlotte pulled something from her pocket, and passed it to Tabby. “She wanted me to show you this.”

Tabby took it with trembling hands and saw it was a folded piece of paper. The paper wasn’t new, it was clear from the dirt on it and the rips. She slowly unfolded it and read the title on top: Things I want to do before I die. Tabby’s heart skipped a beat as she scanned the list. Sentences popped out to her like, read my entire book shelf, sleep outside underneath the stars, learn how to ballroom dance…The butterflies in Tabby’s stomach multiplied with each thing she read. She remembered sleeping outside with Charlotte and Lucy that one night…and Lucy taking her arms and dancing with her all across the lawn…how she was always buried in a book…that’s why…she made this list…Tabby studied it and saw, with a pang in her stomach, that some of the things were crossed out, signifying that she’d done it, while others weren’t…the last one was circled…it said, create one thousand paper cranes…

Tabby’s head snapped up the look at Charlotte. “I’ve read about paper cranes,” she told her, quickly. “If you make one thousand, you are granted one wish! One wish…one wish…” Tabby suddenly slumped back, realizing…Lucy wasn’t making these for nothing. She was making these paper cranes for her one wish….the wish she never got…

The girls looked at each other, and for once, Tabby saw Charlotte’s mask fall away. But, she didn’t cry. She didn’t cry at all. Staring at her, Tabby wished she had; the helplessness scrawled heavily upon her face was even worse. Tabby felt like she was falling again and falling. Because nothing was going to bring Lucy back…nothing…

Silently, Tabby watched as Charlotte began to count the paper cranes, picking each up delicately and placing them in a separate pile. After a while, Tabby helped her. There was no need to talk. They had to keep focused on one task: counting the cranes. Finally, the floor around them was clear, the rest of the cranes in one pile. Tabby and Charlotte stared at each other again, almost anxiously. “How many did you get?” Charlotte asked after a moment.

“Six hundred and forty four,” Tabby responded, quietly. Charlotte nodded in agreement. They fell back into the deafening silence, until Charlotte felt obliged to speak again.

“You know what this means, right?” Tabby looked at her, confused, as Charlotte got up and retrieved the pile of paper from the dresser. She placed a piece in Tabby’s limp hands and guided them through the motions of making a crane. Tabby didn’t argue, she just let Charlotte, slowly realizing…Charlotte held up the perfect crane the two of them made together, her eyes shining. “We are just going to have to make more.”

And for the first time in days, Tabby smiled as she and Charlotte reached for another piece of paper to make another crane…and another…and another…For Lucy may be gone, but her memory lived on in each and every paper crane.

^^Made by the excellent Shrimp!