Can vaguely remember an assignment based on this back in middle school.Finding this book made me decide it was finally time to buy the book that actually made some stories based on the pictures.
Should “Chris Van Allsburg” as a name sound familiar to you...He’s the one responsible for the picture book that inspired Jumanji and/or Zathura.Think he also happened to illustrate a variant of covers to the Narnia series.
A semi-surrealist story about a little boy, his search for the light, and the friends he makes along the way.
This story is based on the above image from The Chronicles of Harris Burdick, a mysterious collection of illustrations that are missing their stories. Thousands of authors, songwriters, and creators have tried their hand at applying their own imagination to these strange pictures. You can find out more here!
You, the reader, may not think that light makes a sound, but it does. It rings as brilliantly as a bell made out of heavenly silver. It is as breathtakingly beautiful as a child’s first sunrise and as gentle as an angel’s kiss. It is barely discernible, but invokes a deep sense of yearning that tugs at the heartstrings and causes tears to well up in the eyes. You may not know this, but James Fitzwilliam Persimmon does. He is listening to it now, his rosy lips pursed and his head tilted to the side...
James Fitzwilliam Persimmon is a charming young lad, clad in a navy blue sailor suit that shows the wear of many uses at the knees and elbows. He is perhaps eight years old, with plump cheeks, hair that sticks up ever so slightly at the nape of his neck, and a single furrow in his brow. As James Fitzwilliam Persimmon closes his eyes in thought, the furrow deepens. Right now, he is thinking about how beautiful the light sounds. It reminds him of his mother’s shiny smile, or how the glass of the face of his father’s precious pocket watch glows when you hold it up to the firelight just so. It reminds him of sunbathed family picnics on July afternoons and the first glittery, enticing snowfall of winter. James Fitzwilliam Persimmon is a child with his heart in the right place, his shoulders squared and his head held high. His nails are clean and his nose is wiped. His shoes were polished, once, before he began this journey.
He opens his eyes and looks eagerly into the distance, choosing his steps carefully. Right now, James Fitzwilliam Persimmon is a long way from home. He recalls that morning before he left, when his mother hugged him tightly and he sat on his father’s knee to gaze at the golden pocket watch one more time. He remembers peering into his baby sister’s bassinet and wiggling a finger as she cooed. But now he is on a very important journey.
Miles and miles into the distance before the little boy stretch an infinite line of railroad tracks. The silver rails are as shiny as if they were laid down yesterday, shimmering as the sun slips out from behind a cloud. James Fitzwilliam Persimmon stretches out his hands, feeling the warmth on his skin. He knows that he has been walking nearly all day, but his skin shows no sign of sunburn. He adjusts his jacket.
Pebbles bounce and skitter as James Fitzwilliam Persimmon plods along, clattering down the steep, rocky slope on either side of the tracks and falling with a plop into the water lapping leisurely below. Kicking a stone, the boy decides to follow it to the water’s edge.
The great black ocean stretches as far as he can see. He turns, seeing it is just the same on the other side of the tracks. It ripples gently, as if something is sleeping just under the surface. He navigates the jagged rocks, clambering down the slope and stooping at the water’s edge. The surface is a void, so dark it gives him shivers. The roiling clouds overhead cast no reflection on its inky surface. More disconcerting, however, is the sound that tickles at James Fitzwilliam Persimmon’s young ears. The abyss is humming, so low it feels like it is pulling something from his chest. The darkness doesn’t sound anything like the light. It is menacing and unknowable. The boy’s small fists clench, his face turning white.
Suddenly, a sound can be heard behind him. The boy stands up quickly, brushing tears from his cheeks. It’s the clatter of wood on metal, and it’s getting closer. James Fitzwilliam Persimmon scrambles up the rocky slope to see something quite odd. A contraption, something like a handcar crossed with a sailboat, is puttering towards him. Manning the mainsheet is a dapper, jovial man with a finely groomed moustache. At his elbow sits a bouncing woman with hay-colored hair. Together they make a red-cheeked, round couple. The cheerful man sets the rope down, hailing the small boy, and the strange vehicle rolls to a creaking halt.
“Hallo, boy! Fine day for traveling, isn’t it? How are you?”
James Fitzwilliam Persimmon stands tall and squares his shoulders, the way his father taught him to. “I am doing quite splendidly, thank you very much. I am on an expedition to the light that makes that beautiful sound. I’ve been walking all day and just stopped to take a rest. I’m not tired, of course.” He juts his chin defiantly.
“Ohohoho, of course not, you fine boy!” The man and his wife titter. “Say, we’re following the sound of the light as well. Why don’t you join my wife and me on our fine contraption here? With you joining us we’ll be able to travel three times as fast! We’d be more than happy to take you along!”
James Fitzwilliam Persimmon studies the lazily billowing sail, sturdy wooden frame, and the unusual vessel’s cheery captains.
“I would be quite grateful, sir!”
“Then welcome aboard!” The man pats the wide railing behind his and his wife’s seats, offering the boy a hand as he settles on his perch.
“Say, what is your name, young captain?”
“My name is James Fitzwilliam Persimmon. I’m from St James’s, London. I live in a big red brick house and I have a mother and a father and a baby sister.”
“Do you hear that, Marjorie? His name starts with a J! We’ll get along splendidly, then. A fine letter, a fine letter indeed! My name, dear James, is Jacob! I am the engineer of this marvelous vehicle, and this-” The woman at his side gave a gap-toothed smile and waves. “-Is my lovely wife Marjorie, the wicked genius behind each of my projects!” Marjorie blushes and raises an eyebrow.
“Oh, he does flatter me. Although it would be blatantly false to claim that there isn’t a dash of genius in my signature pepper cucumber sandwiches.” She gives a cackle and dimples appear in her ruddy cheeks. “I do wish I had some right now for you to try. But it simply wouldn’t do to get crumbs all over your nice blue sailor suit, now, would it? Tell me, James Fitzwilliam Persimmon, do you want to go out to sea?”
They continue to putter along as James Fitzwilliam Persimmon excitedly launches into a lecture on the finest ships in the British navy and tales of grand sea battles. Marjorie responds to every word with glowing appreciation, liberally doling out cries of ‘Oh that is simply fascinating!’ and ‘I can hardly believe it! Can you, Jacob?’ Jacob lets the boy man the ropes for a time, him bouncing up and down in his seat as the wind tries to tease the line from his eager grip. Eventually, the sky grows dark and the silhouettes of the clouds turn into an indigo blur.
Once again, Jacob allows the ship to putter to a halt. He busies himself in the center of the deck, constructing a small fire from a device in his pocket. He grunts, getting to his feet.
“Another one of my nifty gadgets!”
There is a clunk and Marjorie’s head emerges from under her seat, arms filled with a bundle of blankets. The three of them lay out under the midnight sky, the sail rustling overhead. The warmth of the fire, the plushness of the blankets, and the friendliness of his newfound friends make James Fitzwilliam Persimmon forget his manners. Not tired in the slightest, he tells James and Marjorie all about everything that comes to his mind: when his father took him to the harbor to see the ships come in, when his mother made him a tiny figure to captain his toy boat, and how his little sister’s fingernails are so small they remind him of tiny seashells. He tells them all about how beautiful the light sounds, and how he ever so dearly wants to find out how beautiful it looks. Before he knows it he is fast asleep.
When he awakes he is at first confused, not knowing what woke him up. It is then that he realizes. He can’t hear it. The brilliant ringing of the light is silent. Terror seizes his chest, as the dark sky begins to drop ever closer. The lapping of the water at the banks gets louder and louder. Choking on his tears, he looks around, seeing the fire and Marjorie and Jacob. All at once the angelic ringing returns, filling his ears. James Persimmon sighs, letting the beautiful sound warm his heart and dry his tears. Settling back under his blankets, he asks his friends:
“When do you think we’ll reach the light? What will it look like?”
The familiar, brilliant notes are all that respond. Jacob snuffles in his sleep, moustache twitching. James Persimmon closes his eyes, imagining a vast sun twinkling under an ocean of stars. He smiles.
The next morning is pleasant and unbothersome, as James Persimmon helps Marjorie fold and put away the blankets and settles upon his perch. The clouds are now marshmallow towers, receding quickly overhead as they gain speed. All at once their peaceful travels are interrupted by a clamor.
In the water up ahead there is a thrashing and bubbling, and a great deal of yelling. Seized with terror, for a moment James Persimmon expects to see some kind of creature of the deep. As they approach, however, he comes to realize that the disturbance is a small boy.
Recognizing the commotion, Jacob sends the ship rattling at top speed with a yank of the line. In near-unison, he and Marjorie leap from their seats and clamber down the bank, reaching in the water and pulling out a sopping mess of a boy. James Persimmon stands on the railing, straining to get a look. Marjorie bundles the boy in blankets and Jacob lights another one of his pocket fires to get him warm, but the ordeal hasn’t seemed to shake the child much. He hasn’t stopped to take a breath since he was pulled from the abyss.
“-an’ I find meself tumbling bottoms up in teh bleedin’ river, wit water up me bloody nose! Tickled something awful, too. So I open me mouf an’ give a shout, an’ then next thing I know I feel all these bloody hands grabbin’ at me an’ think, ‘ell, it must be some of those minging mermaids yeh ‘ear abou’, an’-” The boy finally takes a shuddering gasp. He stills for a moment, looking out at the tracks.
“Blimey. That’s no Thames.” He blinks once more and raises his head, giving a bright, mostly toothless smile and offering a dirty hand. “I’m called Ratsy. An’ yourselves?”
Ratsy quickly proves himself to be a charming companion and lively addition to their little group of voyagers. His stories of running from coppers and raking the muck of the Thames for treasure leave James Persimmon wide-eyed and bursting with questions. As he flourishes his grubby cap to reveal a veritable nest of matted hair, Marjorie can’t help but busy herself at fussing over him. His impressions and quick-witted cracks at the people of London leave Jacob guffawing until he can hardly stand. Ratsy relishes the attention, swinging his bare feet in the air and winking charmingly. Then, all at once, there is silence, as a brilliant spectacle catches the voyagers’ eyes.
To starboard, far in the distance, is a castle. It is as pale as the purest marble, practically glowing on the horizon. Its minarets glimmer like freshly fallen snow in the sunlight. The clouds around it are golden and rosy. Jacob and Marjorie give hushed gasps of awe. Even Ratsy is silenced by the citadel of light. James Persimmon feels in his heart of hearts that this must be it, the source of the sound. It has to be. If there was an answer, he’d find it there. But the tracks continue on and on, eternally on their even path. When the shining fortress disappears into the mist it is with a horrifying finality, a draining of hope. The voyagers do not speak of the castle again.
A tentative mist is creeping over the tracks as they settle down for the night. Ratsy watches the lighting of the fire eagerly, giving a little cheer. Perched in his spot on the railing, James Persimmon traces the golden towers and battlements of the castle in his mind. A question is gnawing at him.
“Mister Jacob, Missus Marjorie? What is it that you want, truly really awfully want in life? What do you dream about?”
Jacob hums noncommittally, but Majorie pauses and gives a response in a strange voice.
“Jacob and I have lived very long lives, and we have worked very hard. I suppose we both just want a bit of rest. A vacation.”
“And is that what you’ll find in the light?”
Marjorie smiles and adjusts a fold in Jacob’s blanket. “Yes, little one. That is why we are looking for the light.”
“What about you, then, James Persimmon? Why are you on this great journey?”
James Persimmon pauses for a moment, taking a deep breath in through his nose. His lips purse and the furrow in his brow deepens.
“I want to make the world a better place, I suppose. I want to find a way to make everyone happy and always thinking about beautiful things. I want to see the light and go home and describe how beautiful and warm it is to my mother and father and baby sister so they’ll know how brave I was. Then they can imagine it and they’ll never be sad again. Then I want to go on more adventures and find more beautiful things and tell more people about them.” He ends his speech with a self-satisfied nod.The only answers are the faint snuffling of Jacob and Marjorie’s snores. James Persimmon looks down, fiddling with the buttons on his sleeves. Ratsy shuffles uncomfortably next to him. The mist creeps over the deck and around their ankles.
“I-I don’t have a mum or da’.” Ratsy breaks the silence. “All I knew when I heard that beautiful sound is that it was the first time I heard summat like angels singin’, and I needed it. I want teh hold it in my hands and jump in it and swim ‘round. I wanta listen teh it until I learn teh sing just as pretty and then I can go down teh the docks and all the gents and dames will be chucking coins in my hat ‘till I have a whole mountain o’ gold.” Ratsy coughs, wiping mud from his chin.
“Hey, you an’ Jacob an’ Marjorie are fine folk. Some o’ the finest folk I’ve met. You’re probably the closest thing to family I’ve ever got, an’ I’ve only known you blokes for ‘round one day. Innit the saddest thing you’ve ever heard? I’m glad you pulled my sorry ass from the muck, I suppose. I thought I was going teh get dragged straight down teh the gates of ‘ell!” He stops suddenly, evidently thinking of something.
“Do you wanta know how I got my name? I used to have a little pet rat. Caught ‘er mesself. ‘Er name was Duchess. She was me best girl, the cleverest lil bugger you ever did see. She would do near anythin’ for a morsel. She went with me everywhere, rode ‘round in my coat pocket. She’s gone now. Lived to be a ripe old age. Maybe we’ll see each other again someday. I sure hope so. I don’t know if rats go to heaven. Or ‘ell, I suppose.”
James Persimmon turns his head to find Ratsy’s dark, glittering eyes inches from his own. Ratsy’s voice is a raspy, conspiratorial whisper. “Would you like to hear my name? My real name? I’ve never told anyone before, not ever.”
“It’s Jeromy- Jeromy Borden.”
James Persimmon opens his mouth to respond, but he is quickly distracted by a realization. The sound is gone again. His mind buzzes with panic, as Rat-Jeromy-Ratsy vanishes behind a veil of darkness. The taunting mist turns choking as it creeps up his throat. The whole ship quakes as waves crash around it, the wheels rattling on their axles. James Persimmon flails, reaching out for something, anything. As tears well up in his eyes he thinks of his mother and calls for her. Then, as quickly as it left, the light sings in James’s mind once more. Ratsy is before him, swaying and picking absentmindedly at his teeth. As James turns away, the thought nags that he was just told something very important, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember what. James smiles softly, slipping off the railing to go to bed.
When James awakes he is alone, the cold of the rails pressing into his back. There is no blanket under his head. There is no sign of the contraption. Likewise, there is no sign of Jacob, Marjorie, or Ratsy anywhere. He scrambles to his feet. The air is terribly foggy, everything more than a foot from him obscured by a thick, white haze. He raises his hand to his face, wiggling his invisible fingers. The fog is like cold, muffling cotton in his empty ears. Empty. He cannot hear the light. The temperature plunges as gooseflesh prickles his neck. Hugging his arms tightly around himself, James waits for the ringing of the heavenly bells to return. It does not. He closes his eyes, straining. The fog looms silently, almost tauntingly. James curls in on himself, fists clenching at the pants of his blue sailor suit, tinged gray by the murk. His breath comes out in quick puffs as tears stream down his face. Where is the light? He wants to hear the light! The sound of the waves grows louder and louder. The boy has to be brave.
He pulls himself to his feet, taking one tentative step after the other. Before long he is plodding down the tracks, alone once more. The rushing of the waves dims to a murmur behind him. His nose runs and he wipes furiously at it with his sleeve. He marches on for what feels like a day, left foot in front of the right. He drags himself through bank after bank of thick fog, ignoring as it closes around him with a deathlike hush and settles on his shoulders like a shroud. He refuses to think about where Jacob and Marjorie and Ratsy had gone. He finds himself pausing, thinking about his family eating Christmas dinner. His mother laughs, spooning potatoes into his sister’s mouth. His father winks at him, wiping turkey from his moustache. The candles flicker in the window panes. The boy opens his eyes. There it is. There it always would be. The faint sound of the light, that gentle, heavenly song. But something is wrong.
The light sings from a point up ahead in the mist. A point slowly approaching him. Chills bolt down the boy’s spine. The sound, once pure and brilliant, slices like a sharpened knife. Once inspiring, it is now accusing, screaming, asking questions the boy can’t bear to answer. The light is no longer a shining destination. It is something dangerous and threatening, something coming for him. The boy’s heart pounds. He tries to puff out his chest and stand tall, but the ringing grows louder until he is forced to clap his hands over his ears. A strange silhouette glimmers in the fog. The boy’s eyes begin to water and his knees wobble beneath him. The child in him wins out as he cries for a mother whose face he can only just remember. For the first time, the boy turns and runs back down the tracks, away from the light.
He doesn’t get far, crashing up to his waist in the black water that has submerged the iron rails. He scrambles desperately one way then the other, slipping on the sharp rocks. The water is painfully cold and the stones are covered in a thick muck that sucks at his shoes. He loses his purchase in his panic, flailing as he falls in up to his shoulders. He finds himself hyperventilating, his arms thrashing about him. The light is nearly behind him now, the ringing becoming a piercing wail that makes him cradle his head in his hands, shaking uncontrollably. The skin on the back of his neck grows warm, then hot, and begins to blister. His vision swims and his head throbs. Then the boy’s ears are filled with a sound that makes him lift his head. The dark water is humming again. The murmur grows louder and louder, surrounding him until the dreadful peal of the light is drowned out. The sound is cool and relieving to his burning ears. It is low, like his father’s warm chuckle. It is comforting, like a lullaby his mother taught him years ago. The boy feels his tears dry and his body relax as he looks into the deep, inky ocean beneath him. The darkness is pleasant and soothes his stinging eyes. The water laps around him almost welcomingly, tousling his sailor suit and drawing the pain from his blistered skin. The boy realizes how tired he is. He thinks he understands, now. It is time to leave the light behind. It is not meant for him. He was never meant to know the answers it held, or maybe it never held any answers at all. It would only burn him up until there was nothing left. Maybe he just wasn’t ready yet. He thinks one last time of Jacob, Marjorie, and Ratsy. They were lovely, clever people. He is sure they’d find their own way just fine. Closing his eyes, he lets himself fall into the abyss.
You, the reader, may not think that darkness makes a sound, but it does. It is as comforting as a mother’s touch and as refreshing as a cool glass of ice water. It is as gentle and healing as a welcome night’s sleep after a long day and as pleasant as a pet’s velvety fur. It can’t always be heard, but when it is needed most it can soothe an aching heart and dry the tears from your eyes. You may not know this, but James Fitzwilliam Persimmon does. He is listening to it now, his bright eyes closed and a peaceful look on his face.
I started reading the chronicles of harris burdick again after vaguely remembering it from elementary school, and just desert is just as creepy as an adult. normally I love fourth wall breaking, but in this case i was like "you put the fourth wall back or so help me!"
Anyone remember the mystery of Harris Burdick? It’s this book by the author of Jimanji and the Polar Express where he came across 14 illustrations from a publishing friend with that was sent in from this guy named Harris Burdick along with a one sentence description for each and was never heard from again afterwards.
The whole backstory ended up being fake, but the whole legend lives on in schools. I had to do two different writing assignments based on these in school, one in 6th grade and one in 8th grade.
In 6th grade, I chose The Harp, and from what I remember, I made it about a peasant who got chosen to go on an adventure with King Arthur and his knights to find a mystical harp. I can’t find it anywhere in my old school accounts google docs, so I’m assuming it was a paper assignment. Either way, I remember not really liking it after I wrote it and reading it out to the class like everyone else did. I also vaguely remembered being embarrassed by it so maybe it’s a good thing I can’t find it? Anyways, in 8th grade, I ended up choosing Oscar and Alphonse. I could actually find this one in my school account and I recently read through it and still enjoyed the concept and might expand on it one day. The basic concept is that it takes place in an alternate universe where animals can communicate with certain humans without the use of speech. The two examples I brought up are birds chirping in Morse Code and caterpillars wriggling around to form letters(the one more important to the story).
Moral of the story: I am cursed to always gravitate towards characters named Alphonse.
Posting it under the cut because this post is already long.
So here it is. I checked the word count and it’s actually about the length of a full length fic from me. I apologize for all the possible cringe, again I was in 8th grade when I wrote this.
Oscar and Alphonse
She knew it was time to let them back. The caterpillars softly wriggled in her hand, spelling out “goodbye”.
~~~
Seattle, Washington; Centri 2.03a
Two caterpillars were in the forest and were minding their own business when a Black-throated Sparrow swooped down and grabbed the smaller of the two. The other, bigger one, wriggled as fast as it could to a Northern Mockingbird and wriggled out the word “help” with its body.
Using Morse Code the bird chirped “what’s wrong?”
The caterpillar explained that his friend has been taken by a robin and needed help. The bird decided to help the caterpillar save his friend.
The bird chirped out, “Who's your friend?”
“Alphonse, Alphonse Sequoia” the caterpillar wriggled frantically.
“OK, and you are,” The bird chirped.
“Oscar Wilde,” the caterpillar answered quickly.
“Calm down, we’ll find him, Oscar,” said the bird trying to calm down the frantic Oscar.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Gladly, Alphonse was found and could live to see another day with his friend.
Nicole Juliet Arbour thought her family would have a normal life in Seattle, Washington. It looked like a major U.S. city, grey and white skyscrapers looking like they were touching the sky, people were going place to place like it’s their last day on the planet Earth, the smell of car and bus exhaust probably consumed every square inch of the place, and there was always construction every other block. There were many differences between Seattle and Nicole’s old home in Salmon Arm, British Columbia. Most importantly were the country, the people, and the world-famous Sky Needle.
“America doesn’t feel any different,” Nicole complained.
“Sweety it isn’t going to feel different. We aren't going to Africa or the North Pole or anything,” her mother, Elizabeth Arbour, said jokingly.
“Why are we even going to Seattle in the first place?” Nicole asked
“I found a job where I wanted, Nicole,” Anthony Arbour, her father, answered reluctantly.
“Why is it taking so long to get there? I thought we lived not even a day away from Seattle.” Nicole wined.
“Your mother decided to take the long way from Montana to get there. Please stop complaining, it’s getting annoying. You’ll love it there,” Her father begged.
“Why does-”
“No more questions, please, Nicole?” her mother interrupted.
“Fine.”
Anthony was a biologist. There was a secret society of sorts in the biology community that Anthony just happened to be in. These people knew something the rest of the world didn’t, animals could talk in their own way to humans, caterpillars contorted their body into letters, birds chirped in Morse Code. However, with most humans, they acted normally.
The Arbours got to their new home later that day. It was about two months before school started in the area, so Nicole used the time to explore and talk to the kids that would be in her grade when the school did start.
Nicole was 15, smart, and quite beautiful. She had straight, chocolate brown hair that she pinned up to be her shoulders, emerald green eyes, and was surprisingly short for 15. While her future classmates were already 5”6’, Nicole was only pushing 5”1’. She looked like her mother, but she acted like her father. Nicole read a lot and loved being outside.
When Nicole was walking to school on the first day, a bird flew in front of her and started tweeting at her in a strange way. She brushed it off, this kind of thing usually happened to her and she had gotten used to it. At the time, Nicole thought the birds were confessing love or something like that.
After that, Nicole’s day went pretty normal. She met all her teachers, did the obligatory introduction work in class, and signed up for all the clubs that would start in the fall. When the club sign-ups were available, Nicole signed up for multiple, but the one she was most excited for was the Wildlife Club that would start next week.
As she was walking home that day, Nicole saw a bird that looked quite similar to the one before trying to peck and pull at her hair. It was trying to get it to follow her because a little pill pug got flipped over and the bird, a LeConte’s Sparrow, wanted Nicole to help. Nicole didn’t know this, of course, or she would’ve helped it get back on its feet.
When she got home, Nicole told her dad about the sparrow at school.
“Dad!” Nicole called,” there was a sparrow chirping at me and tugging at my ear! I think it was trying to tell me something!”
“It was dear, I think it was trying to get you to follow it.” her father answered.
“But why?”
“I don’t know, I may be a biologist, but I don’t know everything that goes through animal’s tiny brains!” Anthony said laughing
“Don’t make fun of the animals, what did they do did to you?”
“Not my point, now you’re just getting off-topic”
“Stop the conversation?”
“Ya, let’s stop this conversation before we start talking about talking weird.”
The Wilderness Club’s first trip was the Sequoia National Forest. The trees were as tall as The skyscrapers back in Seattle, possibly even taller. The trunks looked like tall, red-stained barrels. The leaves were different shades of green, yellow, orange, and red. When they fell, it felt like an eternity until they hit the ground. It was Nicole’s first time here, but she found herself ahead of the others. She was leaning against one of the titan trees by the path when she felt something on her shoulder. It was a striped caterpillar. The stripes went yellow-green, black, white, black, yellow-green in that repeating pattern.
‘A monarch caterpillar’, Nicole thought.
It wriggled onto her hand and spelled out “hello”
“Why hello to you too, little guy,” Nicole said.
“You can understand me?” the caterpillar wriggled
“Ya, why are you so surprised?”
“I’ve tried talking to many people and you're the first one to understand me.”
“I’m special then aren't I?”
“I didn’t expect you to be so calm about it.”
“Hey, Nicole!” someone from the group called.
“I have to go now,” Nicole said,” what’s your name if I come back?”
“Oscar,” the caterpillar responded
“See you later Oscar, I hope,” Nicole said
Once Nicole got home, she told her dad about Oscar.
“I guess we should go back later,” he said
They did, and when Nicole showed her father where she met Oscar she found a little surprise on the tree. Oscar was there, along with a little Two-Tailed Swallowtail caterpillar.
“Looks like Oscar has a friend,” Anthony said.
“Looks like he does, Dad, looks like he does,” his daughter answered.
Nicole picked the two caterpillars from the tree and made sure it was Oscar.
“Oscar?”
“Ya, what do you want?”
“It’s me, Nicole.”
“Oh, hey Nicole, this is my friend, Alphonse.”
“Hey, I exist too!” Anthony said.
“Oh, hello, I’m Oscar.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Nicole introduced the caterpillars to her dad. Then, the two little creatures explained why special humans like them were so special. All humans like them were destined to work with animals in some way or another. They also explained how domestic animals can talk to everyone, but wild animals can’t.
“Oh, that’s horrible!” Nicole exclaimed.
“I know,” her father said,” that’s why I don’t let you have cats and dogs.”
“I’m getting tired,” Nicole wined.
“It’s time to go anyway,” Anthony said,” Let’s go Nichole.”
She knew it was time to let them back. The caterpillars softly wriggled in her hand, spelling out “goodbye”.
