Hey guys. This is Harry.
I haven’t purchased the book yet. I just looked at the preview on Amazon. But Gail Carson Levine’s book on the art of writing so far is extrodanairy. Writing Magic is something I’m going to get on the Kindle.
Like I said, I read the preview. This includes the first chapter, and thus the first assignment. I’m going to share what I did with you.
Mrs. Fleming’s wig had gone missing.
She had looked and looked; it wasn’t in her wardrobe, it wasn’t in her dresser, and it wasn’t in her bathroom. It was gone.
Desperately she clutched her bald head and shouted in frustration. What was she going to do for teaching that day? She couldn’t buy a new wig in so little time; the trip to the store would be too embarrassing anyway. She couldn’t use a spare; they were all too dusty from underuse. Plus, her high school students would suspect something if she came into class with different hair.
“Phil!” she called her husband. “Did you do something with my hair?”
“No darling!” Mr. Fleming yelled from the den. If not him, who else? Even her children didn’t know the secret: their mom’s hair wasn’t really hers. But she needed to find out, and find out she did.
She marched out of her bedroom, robe and all, stomping as loudly as she could on her wool slippers. She threw open her eldest daughter’s door.
“Emily!” she shouted. “Where is my—”
“Mom!” sixteen-year-old Emily gasped. “What happened to your head?”
Great! Mrs. Fleming thought. She didn’t know, but I just showed her. Next it’ll be her boyfriend, then the whole town. She slammed her confused girl’s door back shut and moved to her two boys’ room. This time she opened the door more slowly, not letting her head show.
“Billy?” she asked quietly. “Did you find some hair in Mommy’s room?”
“Mommy?” the ten-year-old called. “You woke me.”
“What were you doing sleeping this late in the morning?”
“I was tired,” Billy whined. “Hudson and me stayed up late yesterday.”
“What were you doing last night?” Mrs. Fleming asked, feeling much like a detective.
Billy didn’t answer.
“Billy?” Mrs. Fleming said sternly. “You tell Mommy now, OK?”
“It was Hudson’s idea,” Billy whispered. “We didn’t know it wouldn’t work though.”
“What did you do?!” his mom asked, stepping into the room. Her son gasped.
“Hudson flushed it in the toilet, but it got stuck! We didn’t know how to fix the water coming out, and we didn’t want to wake you!”
“You flushed what?!”
“Your hair!” Billy cried.
Mrs. Fleming ran further down the hall and opened the second bathroom door. A mistake. Water rushed from it and out into the hallway, coming up to her ankles. Inside, hammers, nails, and pliers lay around, bolts and screws driven randomly into leaky piping exposed in the wall, the plaster ripped away. Out of the toilet ran a steady stream of water that sept onto the red-headed boy with tired eyes, swollen and closed. He was asleep.
“HUDSON!” the angry woman roared. The boy jumped awake, then slipped on the floor in surprise.
“Momma?” he asked, standing up. “It was an accident, I swear!”
“To flush my wig down the toilet?” she raged.
Hudson smiled. “Oh, that. I didn’t; I was going to get it anyway, if it went through. But it stopped the potty instead. Sorry. I still have it, though. Here’s your hair!”
Mrs. Fleming watched in horror as Hudson, her toddler son, pulled her wig out of the trash, the one full of scabby band-aids and full diapers; her wig, threadbare and waterlogged, was ruined.
How was that? I have to apologize if the tensing is messed up; Bayonet is present-tensed, while I tried to write past-tense here. I’m so used to the former, the original draft was a mix of both. Only after my edits did I get it partly good.
Thanks for reading!