Adventure, Interrupted

Globorz Galaxy. Far, far in the past. Saramus Dent crouched beneath a glowing boulder as the blue light from blasto-guns streamed around him.

It was the eighth year of war with the Blue Forces and the dreaded Hildebeast. He knew the Hildebeast was out there. He could hear its disgusting growl and the scratch of its footsteps.

Peaking around the corner, Dent smelled the unmistakable scent of tuna fish. The Hildebeast had found him! Springing up from his crouch, he fired his green blasto-gun. . . .

“Damien. Damien! Geez, can’t you hear me?! I’ve been shouting your name for like the last 10 minutes! Did you want lunch or not?”

The Hildebeast leaped up and dodged his blasto-gun blast. On its teeth, sickening metal gleamed. . . .

“Damien, I swear, if you’re making me into a gross creature in your story again, I am going to tell Mom!”

“Take that, you putrescent beast!” Saramus Dent cried as he jumped on the Hildebeast’s back. It would be a fight to the death, but Dent could handle it. Bravery had always come naturally to him. . .

“Mo-om! Damien’s putting me in his story again! Mooooommm!”

“Damien, stop bothering your sister and come down and eat your sandwich!”

And with that, another chapter in the life of Saramus Dent comes to a close. I feel like it’s kind of unfair that just when he’s about to do something very cool, someone has to grind everything to a halt. And all for a gross tuna fish sandwich on wheat bread! No pickles. No flavor. As I walk down the stairs, I can still see the planet of Globorz Galaxy lit up in my head. Sometimes, it seems more real than this plain old boring house on this plain old boring street. Except, of course, Globorz Galaxy and Saramus Dent are only things I made up . . . but, just to be safe, I check behind me to be sure that the Whiz! of a blasto-gun beam isn’t headed my way.

In the kitchen, my older sister Hildy sits at a counter stool, eating her tuna fish sandwich and glaring at me with a blasto-gun stare of her own.

“I know you’ve been calling me a ‘Hildebeast’ in your notebook or whatever,” she says. “You are SO immature. Plus, you wrote putres—or putrectelant or something. That’s just mean.”

“Putrescent,” I correct her, feeling pretty pleased with myself. “It means a really gross rotting smell.” I can’t help but laugh, just a little, when I see Hildy’s eyebrows scrunch into a deep frown. “And, hey! Don’t look in my notebook!”

“Ugh. Whatever,” she sniffs. “Damien thinks he’s soooo smart because he can use the online dictionary! I bet you write all kinds of secrets in there, too.” I hold my notebook just a little bit closer to my rib cage.

“Damien,” Mom says as she comes into the room, wiping her hands on a towel, “don’t you see how your words could be hurtful to Hildy?”

The truth is, I don’t. How could made-up words in a made-up world hurt anyone’s feelings? It’s just somewhere I go to escape. I remember when I first told my dad that I wanted to be a writer, and he told me to “write what you know.”

I thought that was just about the stupidest advice ever, because c’mon, who would want to read about a skinny-armed sixth grader who can barely speak up in class? For now, I would much rather spend my time in the world of Saramus Dent. Of course, “real” life always seems to have other plans. . . .