Rated Teen: Just to be safe. I don't know how much of the endeavour I'm actually going to put into text (I may censor some of the language actually spoken, and some of the more off-colour comments may be excluded), so I give it a T as a guesstimate of what may be in store for you, dear reader.
DISCLAIMER: No, I do not own Narnia, and you know that. The adventure itself is mine, in a way. We also don't own The Herald or The Times, which was shown in our summary. (Disclaimer within a disclaimer: ok, fine, the reviews weren't there, but it's catchy, right?)
It may also interest you to know that the adventure itself was an actual event, however unbelievable it may seem. I ask you to not scorn me on the grounds of my revealing the truth. It happened, and though my purpose is not to entertain, it would make a very good story had it been entirely fictitious. Mind you, this is just the introduction. Narnia will come in shortly, and I ask you to have the patience to see me there. The title may change; I know it isn't very good. Bear with me here, it is so difficult to put these events on paper for others to read.
This is a joint account between Kristin (aka Lori) and I, but I'm just doing the first chapter. She'll write a little while later... and you'll love it! (We hope.)
Rendering the Powerful:
Introduction or Foreword by One Author (of two)
It was all real, every bit of it. That should be known before another word is spoken. I don't expect you to believe me. No one did then, and still no one does. But the truth must be revealed. Some names in my account have been altered, even my own, for they don't wish me to tell you this...
But the truth must be known.
Allow me to begin...
I, the Freak, was the source of it all – all the trouble, all the wonder, all the adventure. I, who was proud and smart and always correct (and not afraid to correct others). At my little, cruel school in Bristol, it was I who dressed in outlandish costumes daily, I who held my head upright in a mass of pointing fingers, I who would be searched for in ancient yearbooks. I, the Freak of palest ivory skin and minuscule feet, who at some times did not appear to be even human. I, Ethel.
It won't be denied that I was proud and vain, though I had little to plume myself with. One might suppose that it was an overdose of self-confidence; certainly, that's what I believe. I tried not to show it – to the point where I seemed excessively modest. Indeed, I was smart: my IQ was unknown by me, but it was fact that it was at least 130. So, naturally, I'd grown up in the knowledge that I was smarter than the average bear. At age five, I'd already devoured the Chronicles of Narnia and was ravenous for more... none came, so I busied myself with smaller hills to leap over. Gradually, the hills became mountains, and I was hit head-on with a burst of puberty, stricken with physical, mental, and emotional maturity at the early age of nine. By the time I was in Year 8 (which is the present time period of this story), I'd already become what was considered to be a fully-grown woman. You can see how this all went to my head.
To you, all this may seem trivial information to take up space on a sheet of paper. If that's what you wish to think, I shan't stop you, but I think it will help you to believe this whimsical tale a bit further if you know me first.
Being fourteen and a bit of a rebel, I mostly stood alone in my endeavours. I had no best friend to call my own, as you may, but bounced between the popular and unpopular groups in my school. As I liked to think while I was meshing cliques in cordiality, I was the glue that held the student body together.
I had a few mates, however, that were decently close. Lori Madison was one of them. (In fact, her name was Lori Madison Lee, but over time, her surname dropped out altogether.) Lori was what I considered to be popular: bubbly, cheery, and liked by all. She had no physical characteristics that might be associated with such a description: Lori Madison was fair-skinned, like me, possessing two mystical greenish globes for eyes, and had the darkest hair to be seen. She was a skilled actress and writer, which is partly the reason why we got along so well – our talents were alike. Though I was dismayed that she'd never read the Chronicles of Narnia.
(Truthfully, I hadn't read the Chronicles since I was only a tot, and didn't recall much of the books. By that, I couldn't really call myself a fan, but I vividly remember pouring over those books like nothing else. After I'd grown up, I tried to go back and read them, but the magic had gone from my mind: C.S. Lewis' writing had gotten too formal for me, and I could hardly understand him.)
I had another friend, this one having a much more sophisticated choice of reading. Imagine my delight, then, when I saw a tattered copy of Prince Caspian in his hands during a study period! We'd only met months ago: his name was Benjamin, and was strictly against being called anything but that. Benny or Benji or even just Ben simply would not do. Despite that, I do believe he was one of the nicest people I've ever met, and I'd never seen his face at a loss for smiles. Oh, he was teased terribly, even by his 'friends'. Benjamin was considered a geek, being smart and bookish and in Band class, and his appearance only contributed to the matter. His hair was piled atop his head in a curly, solid mass that appeared to be a bird's nest. The hem of his jeans was always short, the centre of his attention: studies. Nonetheless, I'd met no greater personality. He was always pleasant and bounced insults right off him.
In short, Benjamin glowed.
It may interest you to know that I was on good terms with everyone I knew...
Except one.
Alan Bennet.
A typical enemy: popular, cocky, decently handsome, and all the more perverted. He was raw trouble disguised under a bag of skin. We were on no pleasant terms – he was the only person I'd ever hated, only one I dared aim a mouthful of dirty words at, only one who was saved my darkest wrath. I'd hated him for so long (five years, in fact) that I didn't even remember why I hated him so. That proved to be a problem, as he'd asked a few of my mates that very predicament. They didn't know, so they passed the message on to me, and of course I didn't know, and he was invisibly present as I came to that realisation. Alan Bennet (known only as Bennet by me,) was a right old cow.
If you, my reader, have had the patience to wait through this vignette of mine thus far, I'm afraid you'll be sorely disappointed for an adventure. Oh, the adventure begins soon enough, but reality isn't like a Fanfiction at all. This story is real, really happened to me, Ethel Avery of Bristol. By this I mean that the plot of a fictional story is easily set up and on the run. In reality, plots aren't easily understood unless you've known the characters for a while. As I'm rushing to give you a lively tale, you don't have time to understand the setting as I do.
THIS IS NOT FICTION. Please understand that I mean this, not in the technical way of a librarian, but meaning that it is, in no way, a plot imagined by my own dreamer's imagination. This isn't meant to appeal to such an audience as Fanfiction usually does (though it may appeal you besides). I do not write about a lovesick young King Peter to an audience of lovesick teenage (or young adult) girls. You may continue my account if it indulges you as a reader, or you may continue to so better understand the events that have taken place here.
The truth must be known.
Reviews, anyone?
