March 1926

• Emily Simms, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2012

Sunshine and a warm, light breeze filled the whole of the outdoors; while coolness circled inside the large, stone buildings like from the wind in between the trees on a cold day. Most of the buildings were full of maids, butlers, chefs, house-guests, the building’s owners, their families, and so on. Gardeners took on the hedges, the lawns, the beautiful flowers, and stubborn trees, while the chefs and the waiters served eggs for breakfast and ignored the awkward silence as they entered the room.
The grand library was full of every genre and type of book imaginable; from Agatha Christie to T.R.R. Tolkien. Although many people avoided them they were still there. The head of the house, however, came in there every day. He was a small, chubby bloke and an ignorant one at that. “I don’t like to brag,” He said to his guest, gesturing to himself with one hand, “but I’m quite the writer myself, Miss Christie.” But his guest, nevertheless, knew that this arrogant little man was not in fact good at anything, especially writing. But if he were to be good at something it would be bragging or being arrogant. Either option would be a good choice of a character description. “I’m sorry, but I don’t believe I’ve ever read anything you’ve written,” she said as politely as she could. “Yes, well,” he said reluctantly, sitting upright in his seat and adjusting his monocle, “that’s probably because they haven’t been published yet, but we’re working on it.”
‘Miss Christie’, as this rude little man has labelled her in this current part of the story, looked at him then at his library. With an uncomfortable smile she asked, “So have you ever….” but was cut short by the sound of something whooshing in the room. Something like a heavy breeze, a really heavy breeze indeed. The chubby, ignorant man and Miss Christie both looked up, wondering what could have made such a strange noise. To their surprise a large, strange looking object appeared before them. Miss Christie stood up in astonishment. She recalled she had seen something like this before. She could even see somebody inside of it, inviting her in. She stepped forward, her hair blowing everywhere as she did so. She recognised the familiar voice that came from inside the strange contraption, “Come with me, Agatha.” ...She walked towards the voice.