Monday, January 30, 2012

Three Minutes with a Broken Mirror

Normanday #13: Reflections on bad luck


Write for three minutes about…


…what happened after you broke that mirror…


Email what you wrote to woof at bright dot net by the end of the day February 5 (put “Norman is Sensible” in the subject line). I’ll post as many of my favorite entries as I want next Monday. Include your first name (or, even better, use a pen name) and age (unless you’re tortoise-old). If you’re a published writer, include a biography to be posted with your entry.


Here are the entries from last week when I asked you to write for three minutes about anything as long as you used these three words…


…parsnip…forklift…gravity…



Bicycle Chick

I have two names: Parts Girl and Bicycle Chick. Those aviation types in the next building over (which happens to be the Air Station) gave me both names. And probably behind my back they sometimes add some not-nice-words to the front of those names. But they have to be nice to me because I supply all the parts that make it possible for their flying machines to defy gravity. They call me Bicycle Chick the most, because that’s what I do: ride a bicycle to and from the base.


I love my job, most of the time. I have mastered three forklifts and memorized the locations of the majority of parts in that vast three-acre warehouse. I still smile sometimes when I whip around in a tight space to maneuver a part off or on the shelves, remembering how terrified I was when I first trained on the forklifts. I was sure I’d get myself or someone else killed or maimed, not to mention the parts I imagined damaging. Now I was a pro.

If only I could master a recipe. At the end of the day, I come home to my lackluster cooking experiments. It’s hard to be motivated when you’re cooking for one. But at least you don’t have to worry about offending someone else’s taste buds. Looking at the parsnip in my hand, which looks like an anemic carrot, I hope it tastes better than it looks. I couldn’t even form a mental image of this vegetable before I came to the South, now I’m uneasily cooking with it. What will it taste like? Probably dirt, by the time I get done with it. Cooking and I aren’t on easy terms. Julia Child I am not.

That’s okay. I’d rather be Bicycle Chick.



Cranberly

My sister bet me I couldn’t figure out how many pennies were in her penny jar. She bet me a whole can of soda, but since I am not allowed to have soda (and she knows it!), I changed the terms. If I am close, she has to do my daily chore of emptying the dishwasher. If I lose, I have to fold and put away the laundry. (Her daily chore.) I looked at her penny jar. I had no idea. It was a quart mason jar about halfway full. Mom had used it to can green beans last summer and when we ate the last of them, she gave the jar to my sister to put pennies in. She has been collecting pennies since October, when someone gave her one for Halloween. (Really, who gives out pennies anymore?) It’s almost February now. So…um…that means? I have no idea. Maybe I should look it up online.


I asked Dad if I could borrow his laptop.


“What are you doing?” Penny asked, hands on hip.


“Calculating your penny jar using computer algorithms.” I answered, smugly. (Really, though, I had no idea. I was just going to search how many pennies a mason jar could hold and divide it in half.)


“Algorithms? That’s like using a forklift to pick parsnip. Can’t you just guess like a normal person?” She scoffed.


“Go away. I am doing research.” I type the question into the search bar and an answer came up right away. 532 pennies. Is there nothing the internet doesn’t know? And there are pages and page debating things like this. Weird.


“I’m telling Mom you are cheating! Mom! MOOOOMMMMMMMM!”


“I’m not cheating. We didn’t have any parameters. You didn’t say I can’t use the computer.”


“Oh! ‘Algorithms’. 'Parameters'. You think you are so smart. So, how many, then?”


“266.” I said.


She was quiet. I waited.


“Well?” I asked, impatiently.


“Well, I don’t know, do I? I never counted.”


“Then why did you ask me?” I was so frustrated. I ran to her room to grab her penny jar. She ran behind me, yelling, grabbing at my shirt. I picked it up, opened the window, and dropped it. Cold air beat at my face as I watched gravity do its work and smash the penny jar. “Ha!” I said, maliciously. "Go count them now."


“Mommmmmmm!” She cried, as she ran out of the room.


I don’t know why I did it. What I do know if that pennies are hard to pick up off a half-frozen driveway with gloves on. And that my sister sure can scream. She must get it from my mother. As I crouched on the cold concrete, snow blowing around me, all I wanted was forklift and a hot cup of cocoa.



Richard Skylar

Vivian dipped her hand into the rich dark soil. A moment later, along with Vivian’s hand, a parsnip emerged. The parsnip was no ordinary parsnip. It was from elsewhere. It had been suddenly procured via forklift in a fit of gravitational strangeness. Gravity. That’s where it came from. It could only have been acquired via forklift. Via a forklift which cannot function outside of a normal (i.e. Earth-like) gravitational pull; that is insofar as the parsnip’s origin is largely unknown. It likely came from Earth. But what sort of parsnip would require a forklift in Earthlike gravity? A heavy one. Vivian’s seemingly effortless plucking it from the ground can only mean one of two things: a.) Vivian is super mega strong or b.) the gravity which at present exerts its pull on both Vivian and the parsnip is super mega weak. Or some combination of the two, the numerous possibilities no doubt of which can only be extrapolated via gravitational forklift.

Thursday, January 26, 2012

RAJ THE BOOKSTORE TIGER (Picture Book)

by Kathleen T. Pelley, illustrated by Paige Keiser

Charlesbridge, 2011


A Book Review by

Violet the Telekinetic Puppy


I’m Daffodil the Flower Shop Wolf except that I am just kidding and my name is really Violet and I am a beagle who loves to read. I am going to tell you about one of the books that I love to read and that book is called RAJ THE BOOKSTORE TIGER.


RAJ THE BOOKSTORE TIGER is about Raj and you probably think that Raj is a tiger because this book is called RAJ THE BOOKSTORE TIGER but Raj is not really a tiger. Raj is a cat who thinks he is a tiger and the reason he thinks he is a tiger is because his person calls him a tiger because he is orange and has stripes like a tiger. His person is named Felicity and she has a bookstore. Raj likes being a tiger and because he spends all day in a bookstore that is why this book is called RAJ THE BOOKSTORE TIGER.


Every day Felicity reads a story to the kids who come to the store and those kids love to see Raj and Raj loves when the kids pet him and call him a tiger. There is a man who works at the bookstore and he has a white cat named Snowball and the man starts bringing his cat Snowball to the bookstore. Snowball is cranky and not nice and Snowball says that Raj is not really a tiger and that makes Raj feel bad because Raj likes being a tiger. Raj is sad not being a tiger until Felicity reads him a poem about a tiger and that poem about a tiger makes Raj feel like a tiger again and then he is not sad any more. You might think that Raj would be mad at Snowball but you would be wrong. Raj is nice and wants Snowball to be happy and that is why he tells Snowball about white tigers. Snowball likes the idea of being a tiger and it makes him happy and then he isn’t mean and cranky and then the two tigers become friends. I am happy that Raj and Snowball are friends at the end of this story and that is why I love this book.


There is another reason that I love this book and that reason is because of the pictures. My favorite picture is the picture on the first page where Felicity is holding Raj and Raj is smiling with his eyes closed and you can tell that he is a happy tiger. My other favorite pictures are the pictures where you can see all the books that are on the shelves at the bookstore and I want to read the book that has a boy blowing a big bubble gum bubble on the cover and the book about an elephant named Bob. I like the soft colors in the pictures and when I read this book and look at the pictures I wish I could spend my days in the bookstore with Raj and Snowball.


Here is a list of who will like this book:


Readers who like cats.


Cats who like tigers.


Readers, cats, and tigers who like bubble gum.


Readers, cats, and tigers who don’t like broccoli.


Elephants.


Good-bye.

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

Briar’s Journal (January 24 to February 16, 2012)

Dream Entry*

September 27, 2005


I’m trotting down a long, dark hallway with nothing to guide me but a trail of peanut butter cookie crumbs. When I eat the last of the crumbs, I start to panic because now I’m in a long, dark hallway with no smells or sounds or light. I have only my sense of touch to rely on. The stone floor is damp and cold. The walls are gelatinous and sticky. Just as I’m about to turn around to try to go back the way I came, I see a glow of purple light ahead. As I get nearer to it, it turns blue; nearer still, green. I reach the light—now red—and I see it’s coming from a scorpion-shaped night-light plugged into the dead end of the hallway. Its claws remind me of a lobster. It has a cotton swab where it’s stinger should be.


“I am the Book Keeper. You have only to answer a simple question and I will bestow upon you a vast treasure.”


I examine the night-light.


“Yeah, yeah. I’m a talking scorpion night-light. You want the treasure or not?”


“I do,” I say.


“What’s in psst ssss mmn?”

“What?” I ask.


“Mmrmn psst hsss mmr?”


When I lean in to hear him better, the scorpion’s cotton swab tail whips toward me and jabs at my ear.


“Dang those beagle ear flaps,” the scorpion says. “Let me in there!”


He keeps trying to swab my ears, but he can’t. I dodge him. Then I unplugged him.


“Books are the light,” he gasps as the glow within him dies.


I expect to be in total darkness again, but there’s light coming from within a room whose door has creaked open. I go inside, on the lookout for more scorpion night-lights. There aren’t any. There are only piles and piles of books, each radiating warm light. Moth-like, I’m drawn to them. I gather the treasure to share with my friends, some puppies, and a duck.




BIGFOOT’s share of the treasure:


THERE IS NO DOG by Meg Rosoff

[YOUNG ADULT]

Putnam-Penguin

January 24, 2012


THE EDUCATION OF JAY BAKER by Jay Clark

[YOUNG ADULT]

Henry Holt

January 31, 2012


GRAFFITI MOON by Cath Crowley

[YOUNG ADULT]

Knopf-Random House

February 14, 2012


WONDER by R.J. Palacio

[MIDDLE GRADE]

Knopf-Random House

February 14, 2012


THE DISENCHANTMENTS by Nina LaCour

[YOUNG ADULT]

Dutton-Penguin

February 16, 2012


THE FINE ART OF TRUTH OR DARE by Melissa Jensen

[YOUNG ADULT]

Speak-Penguin

February 16, 2012



MORZANT’s share of the treasure:


BLUE JEANS BEFORE THE STORE by Jody Jensen Shaffer

[MIDDLE GRADE—NON-FICTION]

Child’s World

January 28, 2012


BREAD BEFORE THE STORE by Jody Jensen Shaffer

[MIDDLE GRADE—NON-FICTION]

Child’s World

January 28, 2012


A BLACK HOLE IS NOT A HOLE

by Carolyn Cinami DeCristofano

[MIDDLE GRADE—NON-FICTION]

Charlesbridge

February 1, 2012


SIR CUMFERENCE AND THE VIKING’S MAP

by Cindy Neuschwander, illustrated by Wayne Geehan

[MIDDLE GRADE—MATH STORY]

Charlesbridge

February 1, 2012


FIRST GIRL SCOUT:

THE LIFE OF JULIETTE GORDON LOW

by Ginger Wadsworth

[MIDDLE GRADE—NON-FICTION]

Clarion-Houghton Mifflin

February 6, 2012


THE COMIC STRIP BIG FAT BOOK

OF KNOWLEDGE by Tracey Turner,

illustrated by Sally Kindberg

[MIDDLE GRADE—NON-FICTION COMIC]

BLOOMSBURY USA

FEBRUARY 14, 2012


CITIZEN SCIENTISTS: BE A PART

OF SCIENTIFIC DISCOVERY FROM

YOUR OWN BACKYARD by Loree Griffin Burns,

photographs by Ellen Harasimowicz

[MIDDLE GRADE—NON-FICTION]

Henry Holt

February 14, 2012


OUTSIDE YOUR WINDOW:

A FIRST BOOK OF NATURE by Nicola Davies,

illustrated by Mark Hearld

[POETRY—PICTURE BOOK]

Candlewick

February 14, 2012



PENNY’s share of the treasure:


THE WAY WE FALL by Megan Crewe

[YOUNG ADULT]

Hyperion-Disney

January 24, 2012


ARTICLE 5 by Kristen Simmons

[YOUNG ADULT]

Tor Teen-Tom Doherty Associates

January 31, 2012


THE DEAD OF WINTER by Chris Priestley

[YOUNG ADULT]

Bloomsbury USA

January 31, 2012


CATCH & RELEASE by Blythe Woolston

[YOUNG ADULT]

Carolrhoda-Lerner

February 1, 2012


THE WEEPERS: THE OTHER LIFE

by Susanne Winnacker

[YOUNG ADULT]

Marshall Cavendish

February 1, 2012


HARBINGER by Sara Wilson Etienne

[YOUNG ADULT]

Putnam-Penguin

February 2, 2012


DEAD TO YOU by Lisa McMann

[YOUNG ADULT]

Simon Pulse-Simon & Schuster

February 7, 2012


THE BUTTERFLY CLUES by Kate Ellison

[YOUNG ADULT]

Egmont USA

February 14, 2012


SCARLET by A.C. Gaughen

[YOUNG ADULT]

Walker

February 14, 2012


THE VANISHING GAME by Kate Kae Myers

[YOUNG ADULT]

Bloomsbury USA

February 14, 2012



THE DUCKS’s share of the treasure:


EVERNEATH by Brodi Ashton

[YOUNG ADULT—FIRST IN TRILOGY]

Balzer & Bray-HarperCollins

January 24, 2012


INCARNATE by Jodi Meadows

[YOUNG ADULT—FIRST IN TRILOGY]

Katherine Tegen-HarperCollins

January 31, 2012


BLISS by Kathryn Littlewood

[MIDDLE GRADE]

Katherine Tegan-HarperCollins

February 14, 2012



NORMAN’s share of the treasure:


EARWIG AND THE WITCH by Diana Wynne Jones,

with illustrations by Paul O. Zelinsky

[MIDDLE GRADE]

Greenwillow-HarperCollins

January 31, 2012


HIGGINS HOLE by Kevin Boreen

[MIDDLE GRADE]

Charlesbridge

February 1, 2012


COLD CEREAL by Adam Rex

[MIDDLE GRADE—

FIRST IN THE COLD CEREAL TRILOGY]

Balzer & Bray-HarperCollins

February 7, 2012


ABOVE WORLD by Jenn Reese

[MIDDLE GRADE—FIRST IN SERIES]

Candlewick

February 14, 2012


MR. AND MRS. BUNNY—

DETECTIVES EXTRAORDINAIRE! by Polly Horvath,

with illustrations by Sophie Blackall

[MIDDLE GRADE]

Schwartz & Wade-Random House

February 14, 2012


THE CASE OF THE DEADLY DESPERADOS:

WESTERN MYSTERIES by Caroline Lawrence

[MIDDLE GRADE—FIRST IN SERIES]

Putnam-Pengin

February 16, 2012



BEVERLY’s share of the treasure:


BAMBINO AND MR. TWAIN by Priscilla Maltbie,

illustrated by Daniel Miyares

[PICTURE BOOK]

Charlesbridge

February 1, 2012


CHOPSTICKS

by Jessica Anthony and Rodrigo Corral

[YOUNG ADULT]

Razorbill-Penguin

February 2, 2012


THE MISEDUCATION OF CAMERON POST

by Emily M. Danforth

[YOUNG ADULT]

Balzer & Bray-HarperCollins

February 7, 2012


SOMEBODY, PLEASE TELL ME WHO I AM

by Harry Mazer and Peter Lerangis

[YOUNG ADULT]

Simon & Schuster

February 7, 2012


THE GIRLS OF NO RETURN by Erin Saldin

[YOUNG ADULT]

Arthur A. Levine-Scholastic

February 14, 2012


SOMEONE ELSE’S LIFE by Katie Dale

[YOUNG ADULT]

Delacorte-Random House

February 14, 2012


THE SANDAL ARTIST by Kathleen T. Pelley,

illustrated by Lois Rosio Sprague

[PICTURE BOOK]

Pelican

February 15, 2012

A DIAMOND IN THE DESERT by Kathryn Fitzmaurice

[MIDDLE GRADE]

Viking-Penguin

February 16, 2012



OLIVER’s share of the treasure:


THE BUNNY’S NIGHT-LIGHT:

A GLOW-IN-THE-DARK SEARCH by Geoffrey Hayes

[PICTURE BOOK]

Random House

January 24, 2012


FISH ON A WALK by Eva Muggenthaler

[PICTURE BOOK]

Enchanted Lion

January 24, 2012


ZOO GIRL by Rebecca Elliott

[PICTURE BOOK]

Lion UK

February 1, 2012


10 HUNGRY RABBITS:

COUNTING & COLOR CONCEPTS

by Anita Lobel, illustrated by Tim Bowers

[PICTURE BOOK]

Knopf-Random House

February 14, 2012


AND THEN IT’S SPRING by Julie Fogliano,

illustrated by Erin Stead

[PICTURE BOOK]

Roaring Brook

February 14, 2012


HENRI’S WALK TO PARIS by Leonore Klein,

illustrated by Saul Bass

[PICTURE BOOK]

Universe-Rizzoli

February 14, 2012



LENNY’s share of the treasure:


HANS MY HEDGEHOG: A TALE FROM THE BROTHERS GRIMM

by Kate Combs, illustrated by John Nickle

[PICTURE BOOK]

Atheneum-Simon & Schuster

January 24, 2012


OTTO THE BOOK BEAR by Katie Cleminson

[PICTURE BOOK]

Hyperion-Disney

January 31, 2012


RANDY RILEY’S REALLY BIG HIT by Chris Van Dusen

[PICTURE BOOK]

Candlewick

February 14, 2012



VIOLET’s share of the treasure:


THE EASTER BUNNY’S ASSISTANT by Jan Thomas

[PICTURE BOOK]

HarperCollins

January 24, 2012


ANOTHER BROTHER by Matthew Cordell

[PICTURE BOOK]

Feiwel & Friends-Macmillan

January 31, 2012


CHOPSTICKS by Amy Krouse Rosenthal,

illustrated by Scott Magoon

[PICTURE BOOK]

Hyperion-Disney

January 31, 2012


PINCH AND DASH MAKE SOUP by Michael J. Daley,

illustrated by Thomas F. Yezerski

[EARLY READER]

Charlesbridge

February 1, 2012


LISTEN TO MY TRUMPET! by Mo Willems

[EARLY READER—AN ELEPHANT AND PIGGIE BOOK]

Hyperion-Disney

February 7, 2012


GIDEON by Olivier Dunrea

[PICTURE BOOK]

Houghton Mifflin

February 8, 2012


GIDEON AND OTTO by Olivier Dunrea

[PICTURE BOOK]

Houghton Mifflin

February 8, 2012





* The dream entries from Briar’s journal contain premonitions of books that will be published in the future. Briar’s dream self foresees the books’ summaries and knows which will likely appeal to each of her friends. Briar always wakes up before she can see whether her friends will enjoy the books.

Monday, January 23, 2012

Three Minutes with Random Words

Normanday #12: Everybody loves to write about parsnip


Write for three minutes about anything, but include these three words…


…parsnip…forklift…gravity…


Email what you wrote to woof at bright dot net by the end of the day January 29 (put “Norman Looks Great in a Tuxedo” in the subject line). I’ll post as many of my favorite entries as I want next Monday. Include your first name (or, even better, use a pen name) and age (unless you’re tortoise-old). If you’re a published writer, include a biography to be posted with your entry.


Here are the entries from last week when I asked you to write for three minutes about…


you got stuck washing the dishes even though it was your brother’s turn. You stuck your hand in the nasty sink water, but what you pulled out wasn’t a dirty fork



Penny C. Monster


What you pulled out wasn’t a dirty fork…

…it was a noodle of spaghetti all stringy and gross and you gagged because it smelled bad, too, like worms on the sidewalk after it rains. And then you realized, it was a worm. And it was moving. It was alive! You dropped him back into the soapy dishwater and he started to swim. “Hey you, have you seen my rubber ducky?” he said. Of course you hadn’t, but you didn’t say so because you were too shocked to speak. “What’s the matter, have you got spaghetti in your ears?” he said. You touched your ears self-consciously, and discovered, yes, you did have spaghetti in your ears. You decided you’d had enough of washing dishes and let out the drain, being careful not to touch the gooey worm. “Curse you and your dishpan hands,” the worm yelled as he was swept down the drain along with soggy crumbs of garlic bread. Or were those lice?


Bigfoot


What you pulled out wasn’t a dirty fork…

…it was a tentacle! It wrapped around my wrist and squeezed so tight I dropped the dishrag. “Help!” I yelled. But my brother is a jerk and he called back, “It’s your turn. I did the dishes yesterday!” He totally didn’t, but there wasn’t time to argue as the tentacle pulled me into the sink. Water splashed all over the counter and the floor. Mom wasn’t going to like that. But I had bigger worries. There was a second and a third and a fourth tentacle, all wrapped around me so I couldn’t move my arms. They pulled me under. I looked to see what type of creature the tentacles belonged to, but I could only see tentacles. They were coming up through the drain. And they were pulling me down. It was all my stupid brother’s fault. I don’t care what he said. It was his turn to do the dishes.


Beverly the Other Half-Invisble Turtle


What you pulled out wasn’t a dirty fork…

It’s the Sink Genie.

“I’ll grant you three dishwashing-related wishes,” he says.

“I wish the dishes were clean,” I wish.

“You didn’t let me finish,” he says. “I’ll grant you three dishwashing-related wishes, with the exception of wishing the dishes were clean.”

I’m stumped. What can I wish for? I have an idea.

“I wish this cheese-covered fork was a hundred dollar bill.”

“Granted.”

Wow. I didn’t expect that to work. I fold the former fork and put it into my wallet.

“I wish the soap was snow.”

“Granted.”

Sweet. I pack the snow into a solid ball and bean my brother as he sits watching TV.

Then I’m struck by greater inspiration. Every Monday my little brother is supposed to wash the dishes. I wash the dishes on Tuesdays.

“I wish everyday was Monday,” I wish.

“Granted.”

Best. Wish. Ever. I’ll never have to wash the dishes again and my brother will have dishpan hands for the rest of his life.

Monday, January 16, 2012

Three Minutes with Dishpan Hands

Normanday #11: A sinking feeling


Write for three minutes about the time…


…you got stuck washing the dishes even though it was your brother’s turn. You stuck your hand in the nasty sink water, but what you pulled out wasn’t a dirty fork…


Email what you wrote to woof at bright dot net by the end of the day January 22 (put “Norman is Debonair” in the subject line). I’ll post as many of my favorite entries as I want next Monday. Include your first name (or, even better, use a pen name) and age (unless you’re tortoise-old). If you’re a published writer, include a biography to be posted with your entry.


Here are the entries from last week when I asked you to write for three minutes about…


…your lucky pencil. You use it for every test, quiz, and exam. It hasn’t failed you yet. Thirty seconds into Mr. Dobson’s history class, he announces a pop quiz. No problem. You reach for your lucky pencil—disaster! You left it in your locker! Mr. Dobson’s not the sharpest pencil in the box, and your desk is right next to the door, so you decide to slip out to get your lucky pencil. But it’s not a hallway of lockers you find outside the classroom. You’ve stepped into another place and time. It seems familiar, though, like something out of your history book. Yes, that’s it. And holy cow! Check out who’s using your lucky pencil…



Oliver the Telepathic Puppy


Check out who’s using your lucky pencil…

I can’t write for three minutes. I don’t have my lucky pencil with me. I’m going to send my story telepathically instead……
Did you like it?

Okay, smart guy, very funny. Somebody’s been a bad influence on that puppy. Probably me.



Morzant the Alien


Check out who’s using your lucky pencil…

I would recognize the father of Zeentonian mathematics anywhere, even when he’s frowning.


“What’s troubling you, sir?” I query.


“I’m not troubled so much as bewildered. The moment I gripped this strange writing device, the Fourth Rule of Ebeezitan Equations presented itself to me like a gift on Grabletonzar Day. I would mark it a coincidence were I not highly skeptical about matters of happenstance.”


“It wasn’t a coincidence. That’s my lucky pencil.”


“I see. Well, that explains that. I guess I can retire now. Maybe take up jarventoshing.”


“Might I suggest you devote the remainder of your life to understanding the paradox of how a lucky pencil that didn’t yet exist at the time of the development of the Fourth Rule of Ebeezitan Equations can simultaneously be responsible for that rule’s existence. Furthermore, you might study the propitious pencil itself. Any length of consideration will make apparent that a pencil able to bestow good fortune is quite improbable.”


Time travel and lucky pencils, improbable. Morzant sucking the fun out of my writing prompt, guaranteed.



Kelly Bingham

www.kellybinghamonline.com

author of SHARK GIRL and Z IS FOR MOOSE (coming out in March 2012)


Check out who’s using your lucky pencil…

It’s Abraham Lincoln! You’d recognize him anywhere, from seeing so many pictures and paintings of him in textbooks. He’s so tall, and so thin. And he’s using your lucky pencil to write into a very modern-looking spiral notebook. He appears to be copying the weekly cafeteria menu, which is taped to the wall next to the lockers.


“Hello young person,” he says to you. Then he points at the menu and nods with a gentle, wise smile. “Tater tots today. You can’t ask for more.” He taps the paper thoughtfully. “Though I don’t like the division of tater tots from fish sticks, which aren’t being served until Thursday. I’ll have to see what I can do to unify the two. Everyone knows that fish sticks and tater tots belong on the same plate.”


He holds out the pencil. “I believe this is yours? I fear I snitched it when you weren’t looking. I was anxious to write this down while I could.”


You recall that people often nicknamed President Lincoln as “Honest Abe.” You take the pencil. “Thank you,” you manage to croak, still shocked.


“You’re welcome," Lincoln says. “My goodness, you have sweaty palms. By the way, can you direct me to the nearest restroom?”


You lead the way, hoping against hope that your best friends will spy you walking down the hall with him. But the only person you pass is the school nurse, who has no reaction to the tall man beside you, wearing a top hat. She nods at you and asks loudly, “How’s that tummy ache you came to see me about yesterday? Are you still gassy?”


You feel your cheeks burn and wish you could melt into the floor. “I’m fine, thanks,” you mutter through gritted teeth.


“What an attractive woman,” Lincoln says. “But I must say that her voice reminds me of a donkey.”


You flinch. The nurse is very touchy. You look back to see if she heard him, but she is still walking away, unfazed. You can see how this honesty thing could be bad or good.


At the restroom Lincoln solemnly shakes your hand. “Thank you again. I believe I will stop by the library on my way out, too. That would be…?”


“Around the corner.” You point the way.


Lincoln nods. “I love to read. Historical fiction is my favorite.”


“Me too,” you say.


“Really?” He gives you a kind but stern look.


You blush. “Well. Mysteries are my favorite, actually.”


He smiles. “I like mysteries too.”


You shake his hand. You notice how warm his hand is, how firm his handshake. “Don’t eat the hot dogs today,” he whispers. “Go for the spaghetti instead. The hot dogs are a bit off. Trust me on that.” He starts to walk away, then pauses. “Oh, and when you and Tommy Jones flip a coin later, choose ‘heads.’”


You part ways and return to class, dazed and dazzled. It’s only when you sit down that your teacher notices your distraction and says, “Are you with us, or are you on another planet? Please turn to page 128. We are studying President Lincoln today.”


You turn the page and stare at the pencil in your hand. What just happened out there? Lincoln time-travelling, and having powers of foreseeing the future?


“After history we’ll be writing a short story,” the teacher adds. “Anything you like, but it must be historical fiction.”


You clutch your lucky pencil happily. You know exactly what you’ll write about.


Got to run. I have a sudden hankering for tater tots.