1st 5 Pages January Workshop - Hansen Rev 1

Name: Star Lane writing as RS Hansen

Genre: Middle Grade Science-Fiction

Title: A Nerf Herder’s Guide to Physics

The best dream I ever had was when I was nine years old. I remember being at the beach, but that’s not what made the dream so cool. What made it cool was that I was lifting the one and only Millennium Falcon out of the ocean. It was like that scene in Empire Strikes Back where Luke was trying to lift the x-wing out of the swamp. Only, I actually did it.

I don’t remember much more than that, because who the heck really remembers much about their dreams? The Millennium Falcon was enough though.

The worst dream I ever had was last night. And the night before that, and the night before that, and the night before that… Oh, and in biology class yesterday and during seventh-grade lunch period the day before. Anyway, you get the point.

It wasn’t a nightmare or anything. That isn’t what makes this dream bad. What makes it the absolute worst dream in the history of dreams is nothing.

The dream is a big pile of nothing. Me standing in nothing until a stupid door to nothing appears and does nothing.

And I keep. Having. The dream.

I can’t get rid of the dang thing. And now it’s started to follow me around during the day, jabbing me like an annoying Ewok with a spear. An Ewok that threatens to blow the roof off my rebel mission to save dad’s work.

My hand runs along painted brick as I creep out of my bedroom and inch down the hallway into our living-slash-dining-slash-kitchen room. I’m pretty sure Mom hasn’t left for work yet. Which isn’t a good sign because she wouldn’t skip a shift at the hospital unless something was up. And something being up is never a good thing.

 Mom is standing in front of the toaster. Thankfully, she has her work scrubs on. So, whatever it is, couldn’t be that bad. Not like roof blowing bad. There could be a million and one things that Mom’s worried about. It probably has nothing to do with my dream.

That’s unless Mr. Anderson, my biology teacher, called to complain about my space-out episode yesterday.

“Hey, do you have a late shift today?”

She turns around. Her scrubs are worn at the seams from constant washing and wearing, they make her look exhausted. That, and those dark circles under her eyes. “Good morning to you too, Michael. They didn’t need me yet. I thought maybe we could talk a little before you leave for school.”

“Um, Okay.” Talk? Great. That’s basically mom-speak for something’s wrong. Sounds like the worry is strong with this Mom.

The toast pops-up and she turns back to pull out the slices.

I plop down at the kitchen table. Oh no! My laptop is still sitting on the table from last night. I quickly swipe it into my backpack before she turns around with two plates of toast. One buttered and the other with that prickly pear jelly she’s been obsessed with since we moved. 

She sets a plate in front of me and sits down on the other side of our tiny two-person table with hers. I take a huge bite, almost a quarter of the slice. If my mouth is full, there’s no way I’ll be able to answer any questions about anything.

But she doesn’t speak, just takes a bite of her toast, followed by a sip of her coffee.

“So,” she finally says.

Here it comes. I take another bite, pretty much finishing off the entire piece of toast.

“Have you heard from Ophelia yet?”

I chew slowly and shake my head. Is that what she’s worried about? It was stupid of me to tell Mom that I hadn’t received an email from my best friend in weeks.

Ophelia never responded to my last one, she just dropped off the face of the earth. I didn’t even get a “happy birthday” last Wednesday. Not that I care. I mean, I get it. We couldn’t stay best friends forever when I live fifteen-hundred miles away.

“I’m sure she’s just busy or something.” Maybe Mom will buy that, even if I don’t.

“Yes, probably.” Mom takes another sip of coffee, then bites her lip. “But I’m still concerned about you. You haven’t made any friends in Tucson. I’m barely home. You’re spending too much time alone.”

“I’m fine.” 

I get a sigh and the fine-is-not-an-acceptable-answer look.

“Really, I don’t mind. School has been keeping me busy.” Well, maybe not school, but close enough. I stuff the final bit of toast into my mouth, pretending to savor this last salty bite. Then, I feel a familiar tingle on the back of my neck.

“Michael, I just…” Mom’s voice fades out. Her lips are still moving but I can’t hear her words.

Crud.

No! Please. Not now. Not in front of Mom. I quickly swallow and cross my arms in front of me, digging my fingers into my ribs until it hurts. Maybe if I concentrate on the pain, it will go away. But the blackness starts to frame my vision. My pulse quickens, I take a shaky breath to slow it down.

That doesn’t work.

Pretty soon, the fake-wood table and sand-colored cabinets of our kitchen stretch out, then whirl around like water draining out of a tub until it completely empties and I'm in the black abyss of my dream. Then, as always, the door appears.

The door is white and smooth. It looks like the marble counters in our old house, but without the veins of gray running through it. I walk up to it and reach for the silver c-shaped handle, even though I know it will be locked.

From my experience during biology class I know that I'm not passed out. I'm probably just sitting at the table across from Mom, and as Mr. Anderson put it, “staring off into space.”

How did I come out of the dream yesterday? I do remember beating on the door. I try that. I pull at the handle. Thud—thud—thud. Pound some more.

Then a quiet voice calls out. I press my ear against the door’s cool surface.

“Michael?” It’s a yell, muffled by the thick stone. “Michael!” A little louder this time, and I recognize it.

My heart pounds harder, I almost choke on her name. “Ophelia!” I call back.

“Where are you?”

“Here, I’m here!” But then the door disappears. None of this has ever happened before.

Where the door once stood, is a swirl of blue. Not just a single shade of blue, but a ton of hues, from the darkest ebony-like shade to one that almost glows. They spin together in a fusion of color that looks strange, but also familiar—like a van Gogh painting. Then eight pinpricks of light burst through. The lights are scattered randomly across the blue swirl. Four of them form a small curve, above that, another three are unevenly spaced in a diagonal line, with the last thrown to the side. I'm waiting for them to morph into a word or form some sort of shape, but they stay in their odd dot-to-dot pattern.

And then the light from the kitchen begins to seep back into my vision. The dream is over. I frantically blink the rest of it away.

Mom is staring at me like she’s waiting for me to answer a question. Has she noticed?