The Beging of the Story

Jennifer Bouvagnet

Mr. McCarthy

American Literature

May 5, 2011

I wake to the sound of birds singing their good mornings to one another, the light flapping noise of wind moving my shades and all the sunlight poring in through my window. I open one eye and wonder what time it is, I wonder if I should break the warm beerier my blankets provide but sleep overcomes me and I close my eyes for a little more. Unable to fall back into my dreamless sleep and tugged by my empty stomach I rise out of bed to make myself some breakfast.

While shuffle down my stairs to the kitchen I ponder on what I want to eat this morning. Due to the light happy early feeling this morning I decide to make myself a favorite, crêpes. I go to my magical box of cold; people call the fridge and retrieve eggs, butter, milk and one cannot forget the most important, the succulent red strawberries to garnish my early morning treat. Quickly I grab the remaining ingredients and whisk everything in a blue mixing bowl. I am now all set to commence the cooking. I lick my lips in anticipation. Done! I drop a few cut and washed strawberries and dig in.

With a full stomach I go back to my room and get ready for the sunny day that awaits me. To commemorate the blooming flowers I decide to wear my equally bright floral romper. I secure my navy blue police arm cover over my arm and grab the semi stylish women’s hat to place it on my head. Before I leave the room I grab an eleven inch long golden brown smooth piece of wood, my wand. Though technically I don’t need my wand to perform any of my mystifying tricks I like the cold feeling of wood between my fingers, it gives me a sense of stability and it is where I draw my confidence.

It has been many years now that we sorcerers were able to come out of hiding. Grandmother told me that when her mother was young, she was not able to tell anyone about what she could do. It came to the point where the only people that would know about ones powers was the direct family, no one else.

The reason we had to come out of hiding was because creators from the Old World were looking for a new source of food. Hundreds of wizards rose up to protect their new planet. Which brings us back to the present, it is my duty to serve and protect Chicago. I am part of a task force used to destroy the dangers from the Old World.

Today is May 8, 2057 and for some time now there have been one too many dragon attacks for my liking. I step out onto my front yard and breathe in the crisp air which has a slight after taste of smoke. Around my house I can see baby birds chirping in their nest waiting for the mama bird to come back and feed them their morning breakfast; big bugs and little bugs alike hurrying to catch some of the morning dew sparkling on the dark lush and half singed grass, and Jell-O my faithful 200 year old pooch peeing next to a tree. Lovely J

I stole out and greet the usual neighbors and I start paroling the streets. Nothing usually happens in the mornings; well nothing I cannot easily take care of. I run into a 3 foot tall, oily, wart covered troll racing down Wells Street holding a white purse with a strap much too long to be his. And in the distance I see an old women screaming “STOP HIM! HE HAS MY PURSE!” I think on my toes and conjure up a freezing spell. “Frigidus!” A cool snow reflective blue come swearing out of my sleeve, around the wand and smack dap in between the troll’s pointy shoulder blades.

With an accomplished feeling I trot over to the troll delicately grab the bag from the troll, I am not sure if it is just his face, but has the most horrific grimace and is giving me the stink eye. I unfreeze and handcuff the troll, apparently named Albert. 

The old woman who finally was able to get to us thanks me and takes the purse. She attempts to hit the troll but I quickly step in her way. She protests with “But he is just a slime ball troll he is nothing!” Repulsed I tell her that they are people to no better or no worse then her and that I do not tolerate that kind of behavior. I tell her she should read a history book about when black people were treated the same. I guess history really does always repeat its self.

The rest of my shift went by pretty smooth I just had to break up a fight at the chess tables about who won the game by W. Menomonee Street.

On my way home, to finish off the day I stop by the original Twin Anchors founded in 1932 (which is located in a building that dates back to 1881) that still makes the best tender, fall to the floor delicious, baby back ribs. I sit down on one of the green swiveling chairs at the bar and saver those glaze covered brown jewels. There is nothing better than good old fashioned baby back ribs. Before I leave I have to look at myself in the mirror behind the bar to make sure I wiped all of the rib sauce off my face.

It is getting dark and people are rushing home. It is the danger time, the most danger filled time of every day.  Dragons, thought beautiful with their various colors, sizes and shapes, come swooping down to find their dinner.  The city has designated areas where fresh, raw, bleeding meat is left out for them but there are always a few dragons that like the hunt.

Sorcerers are on high alert during this time.  I station myself with a couple of my compatriots in the middle of the LaSalle school play ground. It is the easiest place to battle a dragon and the place that is most likely going to have the least amount of damage done to it. The air’s balance of crisp air and smoke is changing. I begin to take short breaths to try and keep my lungs as clean as possible we have to squint to see things in the distance. The silence that accompanies these things makes everything three times eerier.    

TO BE CONTINUED.....