10:10 A.M.

Dear Journal,

Another day, another English class. Class is over now, and the only thing on my mind is that note. I plan on asking the old redwood man about it later, but History class is starting in ten minutes. Mom has the day off today and she and my sister are out at the doctor’s office for my sister’s annual exam. You probably don’t know, but I’m also a photographer. Aside from writing, for the past ten minutes I’ve been uploading pictures from the water show in August… 

 It was a magnificent water show and I–…

Wait…

There’s noise coming from the dining room window.

….

I can see the old redwood man throwing pebbles. He must think someone’s home. Well, I’ll just keep away from the windows…I don’t want to meet that guy without mom being home.

It’s time for History class, the dullest class of all. During this time, I usually  sit back and fall asleep. I’m far too wary to sleep now, just like I was too wary to sleep last night. My body feel s limp. My muscles are sore and my legs are too weak to lift. I can barely move my head and my eyelids are heavy like lead bricks. Still, while I’m sprawled out on my futon like a rag doll, my mind still races a mile a minute.

»«

Finally, history class ended.

The teacher was especially cranky today, since no one in the class was prepared. Such is the story of History class. I was all too happy to click the familiar X button at the top of the window and hit Youtube for some random videos.

Mom and Emma are home. Emma’s eating the omelet I made for her this morning while mom is finishing up the cover for her table. Mom likes to make things herself rather than buying them. I think that partially comes from the fact that making her own decor is cheaper.

The old redwood man is throwing pebbles again. Mom can’t hear it while using the sewing machine, but I can hear it perfectly…

I suppose I should go and see what he wants.

–N

12:00 A.M.

Dear Journal,

It is midnight and here I am sitting on my orange futon, glaring at the note as if I’m trying to blow it up with my mind. It’s only a small piece of paper folded neatly into a tiny square and yet I’m regarding it with so much caution that you’d think it was poisoned or something.

It is now midnight plus thirty seconds.

I keep reaching for it a few times but always end up pulling my hand back. Even writing right now seems to be an excuse to keep my hands busy instead of picking up the suspicious note. Who is this old man? What does he want?

Oh whatever, I’ll read it…

….

…What is this? Some kind of threat?

I keep reading the note over and over but I don’t understand what it’s implying. Perhaps I should try reading aloud.

“Your life will change…“

…Huh.

What is this, some kind of fortune cookie fortune? I’ll just throw it out and think nothing of it…crazy old redwood man…

…Wait…

There’s something written on the back.

“Now.“

How odd.

“Your life will change…

…Now.“

What in the world does that mean?

 –N

6:59 P.M.

Dear Journal,

Remember me? It’s No. 2 Pencil girl. Sorry we got cut off earlier. I can’t afford to be late to another “class.” I’ve already been warned for truancy.

After my last class, I got dressed to meet my sister at the bus stop. She is too young to walk home by herself (yet apparently old enough to ride the Cheese Mobile) so I must meet the bus there every weekday at 3 P.M. on the dot. I don’t think I’ve ever told you about my sister. Her name is Emma and she is five years old–a kindergartener. I babysit her on evenings until mom gets home from work. It’s pretty peaceful on most days unless she gets into one of her sugar fits. She has a monster sweet tooth and there is hardly a way to satiate it.

Anyway, here we are, it’s 7 P.M. and I’m in the kitchen with my sister who’s eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The old redwood man is still out there. He usually stays out until 9 o’clock at night because that’s when the drunks from the bar down the street come around our block to start trouble in the chinese restaurant next door. I could almost swear that one day the owner’s going to shoot one of them. Perhaps the old redwood man thought the same and that’s why he always leaves just before the drunkards come. But for now, he’s just staring up at the dining room window, probably wondering when one of us will pass by. 

Our kitchen is an open one and connects to the dining room, so I am able to stand in a position that allows me to see the old man through the window without him spotting me.  I’m not spying on him or anything, I just don’t understand what’s so fascinating about our house. It’s old and shabby in the front, just like the rest of the row houses on this side of the street, and the only thing that sets it apart from the others is the bamboo curtains hanging in my windows and the stained glass art hanging in the dining room window that he’s staring at. The window on the left side of the wall simply houses an air conditioner and straight above it is another air conditioner sticking out of my left side window.

The inside of house, which is rarely seen by anyone in our neighborhood, completely contrasts against the straightforward, shabby exterior. Each of the rooms is its own different world. There’s the bright and colourful play land of my sister’s playroom, the calm, cool deciduous forest of the living room, the zen bamboo garden of my mother’s room, the rustic mexico of the dining room and kitchen, and the stylish retro throwback of my room.

Still, there’s no way the old redwood man can see these rooms. Why does he even stare at this house? What’s so fascinating about what seems like a pile of bricks with a door built in?

Now that I think about it, it’s about time for me to take out the trash. I should probably sit my sister down at her kiddie table and let her watch TV while I take care of this chore.

I’ll be back in a sec…

 »«

Wow, that was weird.

I took the trash out front, like usual, but this time the old redwood man called me over. He gave me a note and told me not to open it until midnight. What is this, a fairytale? I didn’t even know he could speak English, let alone write it.  Still, I kept the note for some reason…

Mom’s home.

I’ll write again soon.

–N

9:34 A.M.

Dear Journal,

I began writing in hopes that I might salvage some of the sanity I’d lost throughout the years. Thinking about it now, I feel so old-fashioned writing in a spiral notebook with a simple No. 2 pencil, but I feel that it gives my life story some kind of character or something. You’ll have to bear with my handwriting. I don’t make a habit of using a pencil though I know I should. That’s just the way it is in the technology era.

I am in school right now–if you can call it “school”. I am home schooled and right now, on this rainy Tuesday morning, I am in English class. We’re discussing Shakespeare. The other students talk about him as if they knew him personally. This doesn’t surprise me. Over the decades, students have been introduced to Shakespeare since the dawn of their lives. His name and coinages are regurgitated throughout middle school and even more during adulthood. It’s become quite a bore.

One of my classmates, who goes by the name of Z, is quite knowledgable about that old playwright. I hardly paid attention, though. Instead, I was focusing on the old homeless Asian outside. He’d been staying on the corner of our block for quite some months now, but just recently–two weeks ago at most– he’d positioned himself on the right side of our house, smack dab in the middle of the three vertically parallel windows from which my family and I could easily view him, and he us. I was never really interested in that old man, not really. When he was on the corner, I could occasionally catch a glimpse of him at an angle if I passed by the second floor window in the dining room. However, ever since he moved his makeshift seat (more commonly known as a crate) in front of our window, everyone in this house has been more aware of him. Occasionally he will look up and grin at whoever should pass by the window. He has surprisingly white teeth for an old homeless man who smokes. He would often flash a smile at me when I pass by my third floor window or at my mother when she passes by the kitchen or first floor window. Come to think of it, that old redwood man was always in good spirits, rubbing his peppered stubble in observation of the world around him with his cigarette in one hand and a cup of change in the other. Just a second ago, his eyes turned towards my window and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened as he smiled that same idiotic smile. I noticed at that time that he’d shifted his position slightly to the right but still in view of our window, as if to be less conspicuous. I wonder why.

Well, enough about him. I suppose I should introduce myself now, since this is the first entry. My name is N. Obviously that isn’t my full name, but should this journal end up in the wrong hands, I wouldn’t want my full name to be found out or else I’d end up being totally humiliated by the secrets that I might write.

I am in the eleventh grade. My favourite subjects are English and German, my hated subjects are everything else. I love to write. I write novels and poetry and short stories.

Scratch that.

I attempt to write novels. I get four chapters into the story before giving up. I never really have solid plots to my stories, really. I just tend to dream up worlds of fantasy and mystery, where I can take on action and adventure and perhaps a bit of romance. Sometimes I wish I could live in the worlds I dream up. I know this is impossible. Yes, I’ll just have to settle with the painfully predictable town of Dullsville.

Ack, look at the time! I’m late for class!

Bye for now!

–N

Welcome to my fiction Journal!

In this journal I refer to myself as N.

You may call me N if you like.

This fiction journal is inspired by real events and describes real people. For privacy purposes, the names will be changed or initials will be used.

My journals may not match up with real time, so pay attention to the date/time that I write at the beginning of the entry and NOT the default time/date in the header.

Feel free to comment and link back to this blog. Thank you for reading and bookmark if you want to follow me!

–Piney

P.S. You should start reading from the oldest post, if you didn’t already know.