Informal disclaimer: I own nothing in this story. Even though most of it is my own madness, I can’t actually claim any of it. All of the characters and their names are fictional. If for any reason you think you may know one of my characters, or they have your name, it is coincidental, and I think you have an amazing name. Either way, I am not changing it. Sorry.
Setting: My story takes place in a small town by the name of Newstory. (Feel free to say it as though two words, that is as it should sound, and it is hard to train the mind to say it any other way.) It is three weeks to the end of summer recess. The town, being entirely fictional, is as dynamic as it can be, while trying to maintain that illusion of reality. I ask that you forgive me, I have yet to write a story of this kind. (Okay, this has nought to do with setting, I am moving on, now.)
The late summer sun hovered lazily over the small town of Newstory, showing early signs of the cool autumn ahead. Soft clouds droned across the sky as they often did this time of year. The weather, as peaceful as it was, did not mirror the, in a sense, active town below.
Newstory was one of those towns in which something was always happening. One could look at any one of its many less than busy streets and see something odd, but never out of the norm.
At the lowest point of this hilltop town one could see smoke rising from the burning remains of what was once meant to be a flying car. The would be inventors, Karl Tesla, age twelve, and Luigi Vinci, age fifteen, were standing at their driveways on opposite sides of the street. Both red-faced, not from the heat of the fire nor from the heavy scolding they have received, but from the shame of failing for the twenty-second time that summer.
In a neighborhood about three up, one would find Beth Shakespeare, age sixty-four, exchanging gossip with Alexandra Poe, age forty-one. While Poe’s two children, Adam, age seven, and Clarissa, age sixteen, sat swinging in their backyard. Gregory Poe, age thirty-nine, was still at work.
The top of the hill housed few families. Those who did live there were more privileged than others, though not always quite as happy. There were only three children at the top. There was Robert Rockefeller, age seventeen, and his sister, Janet, age sixteen. Two houses down lived Jeremy Gates. Robert and Jeremy shared an odd friendship, while Janet was one of the adults, stuck-up and boring.
Believe it or not, as odd as it is now, the town of Newstory is about to get even more so. The adventure on which I am about to take you will prove that life is as unpredictable as the role of a die, assuming you are willing to indulge me as I stumble through the existence of this town and its more than questionable history. (This is part of the prologue, I will edit it all to make sense and look well, later.)
Okay, this is all I have, for now. I am going to work on this story, but, for now, I am still collecting names. I will try to make this world as real as possible, but that is not my talent. Until next time, This has been the failed attempt of Storyteller William M. Dalton.
(I am going to be honest, I have yet to edit any of this. Perhaps I will do that as I work on more of the prologue and further bits of the story. Anyway, farewell.)