The improbable events of Hassie Monsune
Prologue:
Discovering the world of mysteries, chance, and unknown probabilities. The world as we know it shifting into a land thought up by ourselves, possibility limited only to what we can imagine. Reality watches as we struggle to make impossibility into our own fate. I write this in my journal before hearing footsteps coming up the stairs. Then I stash my journal, hide my candy bag and sit on my pencil.
"Hassie, would you like baked beans with dinner?" My mother opens my bedroom door and, without hesitation, steps into my room. I tell her no thank you in the most polite tone I can manage before the slamming door can cut me off, and then get back into my original position. I wish she could just use the intercom!
I like to write stories in my journal when I feel particularly relaxed. And whether they are poems, stories, or even plain observations that strike my interest, I write it all down. I feel bad for my stories and poems, as if they care what my favorite piece is, but nonetheless, I still like my poem 'The Stone Wishing Well". I take time in writing, and this poem I stayed up for three hours perfecting it after brainstorming for a week while I was at summer camp. It goes something like this,
In the darkness, my eyes discover a small well
A hole really, a ditch surrounded by stones
But that thought vanishes when I glance at my nickel
Dirty and wet may it be, the reflection of the coin in my hand still makes me smile
I get on my toes to see over the rim of the well
But I sink down
And farther down into the well
The utter darkness blackens even the far corners of my mind
It paralyzes my body and I am unable to cry for help
Not that it would matter, no one would hear me
After an endless amount of time, I reach the bottom of the well
Pebbles and cold, shallow water surrounds me
Soon, I am transported to another world
It's cold and dark; there is no welcome or kindness here
In this world, there is a deadly and dense quality to the air
In this world, the shattered reflection in the water is all I see
I am all alone here
So I lie down, silently sulking, with no hope
I slowly shut my eyes as the darkness steals life from me, and I whisper for help
But I know no one will find me, my wish is never going to be granted
And I loosen my grip on my nickel, letting it fall from my hand
But then a light appears as bright as kindness, ripping the shadows from me
A hand reaches out to me as warm as a welcome
And when I grab the hand I think "I'm not alone anymore"
I was back in reality, lifted into a better place
Where the stars and the moon light up the sky
Where the crickets create symphonies, where the trees give a welcoming wave
And where the sun rises every day
Finally, I am home
This is one of the longest poems I have ever written, but it was worth the while. At school, I tried to show people my poems, but that never seemed to work. I guess I am the only one who appreciates them. By the way, I am not the most humble person in the world, as you may already know. I try to be, but I haven't grasped inner humbleness yet. Also at school, I learned it was national novel month or something of the kind. My best friend took this very seriously, and almost published her book last year, but I have been thinking of reminding her that almost every day is a national day. For instance, November 23rd is national kick a ginger day. Honestly, I wonder if there is a national sitting on the toilet day.
Anyway, I am writing a book. In my book, I try to be the smartest person in a game of survival. So far, three members of my pack are dead, two are missing, and seven are left to be thrown in a pit of wildebeests including myself. The lines I just wrote are almost irrelevant to the story, like how at the end of movies the main characters life flashes before their eyes, and they say something heart touching into space or to the person next to them. Except I'm not good at creating heart touching stories. I read my dramatic ending to my parents and later they told me how bad it was by rereading it to me slowly and loudly. I spent a lot of time into that ending too. Now they act as if my writing should be frowned upon, hence the hidden journal.
Even my brother doesn't know where I put my journal, and he finds my Halloween candy stash year after year. I didn't count this year because I bargained with him, if he wants candy, he either trick or treats with me or pays for it. No questions asked. I watch him so he doesn't take my candy, I always go to bed after him, go to school after him, and come home before him. It's as easy as pie to get money from him, and to keep him out of my room. Double win for me!
At dinner, my mother tells us about the horrible day she had at work. She tells about the funeral home, and how she got a dozen death calls in one day. I feel sympathy, but hearing her feel badly for herself is getting old. My father decides if he tells us about his day, there would be no words to say other than "Today at work I thought about math, I typed, and I wrote about math." He works at Motorola, and since he makes computers for the government or some other special people, he can't tell us much. Good thing too, we wouldn't understand any of it! Lastly, my brother Nolan takes the stage and tells us about his new Lacrosse coach.
"Finally! A junior-senior coach!" He shouts. My reaction to this, blah blah lacrosse blah. I usually don't have much to say at dinner, the school lunch is so bad I almost don't eat lunch, so I have to chow down to keep a steady metabolism. Also, my day consists solely of taking tests, jokes from lunch, and chorus practice. Once again, no one cares. I take advantage of the last 15 minutes of dinner to stuff my 12 year old self with as much roasted chicken and potatoes as possible.
Then I remember, today is Friday, there are no plans for me tomorrow, and I finished my homework. My face almost breaks into a toothy grin, but I stop myself. They don't need to know why I'm so happy.
Chapter 1: my life
I was brought here in the first ship, like the other members of the Garde. I don't remember much about the trip, except for my Cepan. She died almost immediately when we got off the ship. Fortunately, she died of sickness, and I'm glad she wasn't kept with the Mog's. They would have tortured her, giving her a long time to feel the unnatural amounts of pain. Her name was Mary, or at least for the year we were on the ship. Then the people found me crying in our home, all alone. They were my neighbors, and all I remember about them was that they brought me to the Italian government saying my 'mother' had died of pneumonia. I was grateful, no one knew who I was, nonetheless what I was.
After Mary died, I was given foster parents, and my last name was changed completely. When I think about it, it's a good cover story. Whenever I do something stupid, I change foster parents, and I live on for another few months. Being number 5, this is a relief.
The first time I changed names was when number 1 died, and luckily, the scar appeared when I was all alone. I left anyways, just in case anyone saw my scar. The second and third both appeared when I was in public. I was in the mall going down the escalator, and my sock started glowing. The girls around me thought nothing of it, asking where I got my socks, and how they glowed. But I was sure someone saw it, an old lady with suspicions or even a Mog. The third time I was in school, writing a report, when I heard my own flesh sizzling. The pain was excruciating, I'm just glad my sock didn't glow!
I went to the bathroom to see the scar, and another girl was in the bathroom. It must be weird, hearing a person in the girls bathroom gasp for air, while seeing her feet shake under the stall. I was kicked out of that school, and I was on my 'last try' for my current family. I wish I could have showed them my scars, maybe they would believe me when I told them about the bathroom incident. My last family is the best I've had yet. They don't care where I go, what I do, or whether or not I did something bad in school. I tried my best not to get in trouble, I haven't had any scars come, and I am careful when legacies come in school.
I got my first legacy in school. I was in the bathroom fighting with another girl. I pounded my fist against the wall, and the wall opposite of that one shattered, even though it's made of solid concrete. I don't know what to call it, but it never happened again. Maybe it was a coincidence. The second came when I was at home, I was trying to awaken my telekinesis manually, concentrating on my cell phone. Instead, it changed forms, from a cell phone into a music box, then back to a phone. I smiled like I got a 100% on a test, then I tried it on other things. It only works on metal, as I soon found out, but when I get telekinesis, it won't matter as much. The newest legacy I've developed is the ability to time travel. Only small amounts of time, an hour is the longest I've been gone. I traveled to the future, but it's so much harder, like being forced to run across the mountains of Italy while everyone else sleeps in a car of a slow moving cargo train.
Tomorrow though, I get to train myself. Saturday is a good day for writing, reading, and working on my developed legacies. Even though reading and writing in my journal is fun, I think tomorrow I'll skip my morning peace, and go straight to the fun part. I could visit my old homes, work on foresight, or go to the scrap metal yards and have some fun there. When I almost break out in a toothy grin at dinner, and stuff myself with food, as I've managed to visit that far into my future, I come back to my time to sit and continue writing my book.