I have been slowly working through old files this last year and yesterday came across a story I’d written with some classmates when I was ten years old. Our teacher that year hated me with a passion, and treated me horribly but had this particular four chapter work bound four times over with thick tape and cardboard. The whole of each volume was covered in a marbled paper I vaguely recall crafting with oil and detergent in dyed water. I have a half memory that something unfair had happened with the content, but not of what.
Looking over the book yesterday I saw that mine was the third chapter, each had been printed and pasted onto the scrap book base. On the first page, in the table of authors my name appears against the final chapter (in which Liam awakens to find it was all a dream). In blue ink hand drawn arrows indicate that the index is erroneous and the authors’ names have been transposed.
On the pages, my real pages, which narrate the tale of making rain so as to distract the gods (who must provide sufficient thunder and thus fail to notice an escape from their realm) are asterisks in the familiar blue ink. They are not in my teacher’s hand, but in mine. I had in my memory credited her with making the alteration herself to each volume when it became apparent, however it would seem I marked the pages so my parents would see which was my work when I took it home at the end of the term.
She’s on the list, that woman. I still have nightmares about her.