Title: Scarecrow and His Dysfunctional Daughter: The Beginning
Author: Sugar Muffin 4392
Rating: Teen
**********
"Weenie, wimpish, dysfunctional, emotional, sniffling, mushy…" she heard a male voice say.
"What?" she asked, turning towards the direction of the voice. A man in a turquoise blue tracksuit and white tennis shoes stood beside her. He was wearing a whistle around his neck, and carrying a clipboard.
"I said weenie, wimpish—"
"No, I heard all that, but what are you saying?"
"Oh, I'm describing your characteristics."
She stared blankly at him.
"You know, adjectives?"
"What are adjectives? And what is char-acter—"
"Characteristics," he said.
"Yes," she said.
"An adjective describes a person or thing in a sentence, and characteristics—well, let's just say, I'm describing your character. Do you understand?" he said.
She nodded. Her long, blond hair, tied back in a ponytail, bounced as her head bobbed up and down, then she immediately shook it back and forth. She looked up at him, and watched his shoulders rise as he sighed.
He took a deep breath, and blew it out. "Haven't you been listening to me at all?"
"Of course," she said.
"OK, fine." He paused for a moment, tapping a pencil against the clipboard, "Who are you?"
"Umm…"
"That's what I thought, kid. OK, let's start at the beginning." He placed the pencil behind his ear and took another deep breath. "Your name is Jenna Leigh Stetson, and—"
"Jenna," she interrupted, crinkling her nose. "That sounds like a name for a cheerleader."
"Close, you are a dancer."
"I am? Ballet?"
"In the beginning. Then you join the dance team in junior high, but you have to drop out after you are injured. However, don't worry, because in the end you'll become a pole dancer, and change your name to Cheri Blossom."
"I do?" she asked, her eyes wide with shock.
The man was looking down at his clipboard, unable to meet her eyes. "What else do you expect from a 'Sympathetic Sue'?"
"A what?"
"A 'Sympathetic Sue.' That means a character an author writes a certain way, because the author wants the audience to feel sorry for the character."
"So shouldn't my name be Sue?"
"No, your parents named you Jenna—"
"Who are these parents?"
He quickly scanned his notes. "Let's see, your dad is Lee Stetson; code name Scarecrow, super spy, suave, debonair, a real ladies man, until your author tamed him."
"My author? Don't you mean my mother?" She raised her eyebrows.
He shrugged his shoulders, and looked down at her, putting his hand on her shoulder. "In some respects yes, but your author writes your dad often as silly, and dumbed down. Now, not as dumb as your mom second season, but close, and later, after your kidnapping, he becomes just as much an emotional basket case as you, until the readers will need a microscope to find what's left of the original character they knew and loved."
"And my mom, what's her name?"
"Umm…let me think, it's Mrs. Stetson. Yes, Mrs. Stetson."
"Doesn't she have a first name?"
"Yes, it's Manda, no that's not right…it's Amanda, but your author likes to overemphasize the Mrs. Stetson."
"Why?"
"Because it's a cliché most SaMK authors use."
"SaMK?"
"Yes, it's an acronym for Scarecrow and Mrs. King. Your mom and dad."
"But I thought you just told me her name was Mrs. Stetson."
"When your dad first met your mom, it was Mrs. King. Understand?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Don't worry, this is all trivial, your mom doesn't appear much in your stories anyway."
"She doesn't? Why not?"
He shrugged his shoulders again. "I don't know, but other then giving birth to you, she's unimportant—nothing more than a human incubator, and when she does appear in your stories, they will be Amanda-lite, or she'll be 'Aunt Lillianed'."
"What's Aunt-Lillianed'?"
"It's a plot device writers use when they don't need or want a character in the scene or story, they're in the way, or the author can't come up with something creative, so they 'Aunt Lillian' the character to explain the absence."
Jenna raised her hand.
"Yes, Jenna."
"Can I ask a question?"
"May I."
"May I what?"
"Never mind. What do you want to know?"
Jenna was sitting on a wooden bench in an all-whitewashed room, which resembled a train station. The station was old, but well kept and neatly cleaned. Above the platform was a large round clock with brass-colored Roman numerals and hands. Antique steam engines with passenger cars came and went, and she watched men, women, children, animals of all kinds, space creatures, and some characters she could not identify get on and off.
"Where am I, and who are you?"
"You are in the pre-planning stage. This is the waiting area until it is your time to be written as a character in a story. As for me, think of me as your teacher, spiritual adviser, or even coach. I'm preparing you for the literary world."
She nodded her head in understanding. Then noticed the way she was dressed. She was wearing a sweater, flare jeans, and black Skechers, a backpack was thrown over her right shoulder. "How old am I?"
"You're eleven, almost twelve."
"Why?"
"Because that's how old you are in the first story you appear in."
"Tell me about my character..."
He continued, ignoring her interruption, "You're a pet character to your author in a never-ending epic, filled with fluffy dialog, juvenile situations, simple description, lots of clichés, and artificial angst."
She stared at him, her big, brown eyes filled with tears, threatening to fall. "What's going to happen to me?"
"Don't know the particulars, only know the generals, but you are kidnapped, beaten, taken hostage, shot, attend therapy, go through hypnosis, spend countless hours in emergency rooms, raised by a control freak of a father, who is afraid to let you grow and make mistakes, accidentally discover what your parents do for a living, and testify at a trial, all before you turn fourteen."
"I'm not going," she trembled, and her fists clenched and unclenched. Tears streamed down her face.
"Good, that's exactly what your author needs a sniveling, emotional little girl."
"I don't like it. I don't want to be weak, I want to be strong. Strong I tell you!"
"Sorry, once these things are set in motion, there's no going back."
He looked up at the clock. "Time to go Jenna. Your train is arriving."
No sooner had he spoken those words, she saw a puff of white billowy smoke coming from the stack of a train that had just pulled into the station.
"No, I don't what to go," she cried. "I didn't ask for this. You can't make me go."
The man pulled her up and out of the bench, dragging her towards the train. "To bad, you've already been conceived following a poorly written smut scene."
"What's smut?" she asked as he shoved her up the stairs and onto the vestibule. A porter then grabbed her hand, as the train lunged forward, gradually picking up speed.
"Just ask your dad when you're seven or eight. That will freak him out, but not as much as the first time you wear lip-gloss, or buy your first bra, or kiss a boy, or go on your first date…" he hollered as the train sped away.
The End