18 | OCTOBER 2021
CREATIVE CORNER
Short Fiction
LONG LOST BROTHER Contributed by the Creative Writing Club
F
rom a young age, I’ve heard my mother say that I would find my long-lost twin some day, but over a while I came to regard it as fiction. A tall tale, designed to entertain but not to give the truth. Yet here I am, 28 years of age, standing next to him, with the sound of machines surrounding me, lulling me into silence. Certainly not fiction, he is a familiar face, my boss, yet newly recognizable. What happened to break him apart from our family? Why had he waited so long to contact me? As if he could hear me, Mr. Stubbsley responds to my unspoken questions. “I know there must be a lot on your mind, Egbert. Come, let us leave the floor and discuss it.” I know not whether to trust this man, but I comply. Mr. Stubbsley, or Michael, as he’s asked I call him, was born 28 years ago as well, but separated from his birth parents, my own parents, at three months old. He was brought to London from his home city of Liverpool - mine as well - and educated in an upper class family which Michael said were: “the Tudors, who, despite not being considered royalty much as of late, were very influential and regularly held conferences with members of the government.” The parents who adopted him soon realized they held a precocious youth in their hands, and exactly 13 years after he was seized from his mother, Michael Stubbsley graduated valedictorian of Oxford. From there, Michael became associated with a shipping association, where he amassed his fortune and began assembling an industrial empire under his belt. By the time he was 28 - the current year - he was the seventh wealthiest man in England. A far cry from my own fortunes, I thought! “But Michael,” I asked, with more questions running through my mind than before, “why would the Tudors have an interest in you? In us?” Michael’s face suddenly fell. “Egbert… there’s a foul plot afoot, and I’m here to help you. I ask for your unwavering trust in me, even though this all must come as a shock to you. Time is of the essence.” “The workers here must know of the great Accident of ‘87, right?” To which I responded, “Yes, I’m sure. 114 dead, such a tragedy rarely goes unnoticed.” Michael leaned in towards me, and I could feel my pulse quicken. “There are people after us who would have us dead, Egbert, and that is what they plan on doing today. In exactly 23 minutes and 17 seconds, this factory too will suffer an accident.” Michael stood up, offering his right hand to me. “Come with me if you want to live.”
JOIN THE CREATIVE WRITING CLUB The stories on this page were written by members of the Creative Writing Club. If you’re interested in joining the club, it meets twice a week at 2 p.m. on Mondays and Fridays in Room 110. For more information, talk to any member of the club or speak to the club’s adviser, Christina Lewis. EDITOR’S NOTE: The Hawkeye is working cooperatively with the Creative Writing Club this year to bring student literacy works to the forefront. Ultimately, the goal is to eventually produce a literacy magazine as part of the student media at Mountlake Terrace High School. If you’re interested in contributing to this effort, please contact members of the Creative Writing Club or its adviser, Christina Lewis.
Hawkeye
Short Fiction
THE PECULIAR TALE OF SIR EDGAR AND HIS WIFE Contributed by the Creative Writing Club
A
s any old spy would do, they would always report their finding to the head of the board. In this case, that would be the monarchy. As always, under the conditions of having the spy, they must have their entire life story submitted to the archives. This includes both the miserable queen and king trying to do everything in their power to find a way to destroy each other. This known fact led to the queen and king searching the archives, at different times of course, which led to the findings of a being, Edgar, who must eat a person every fifth meal. Since this is a must for the being to live, society can’t call the action of eating a person murder. In turn, Edgar won’t be forced to go to jail and can have his meal of a human in peace. Edgar was then used to depose the Queen of Switzerland, and there was much rejoicing. She was not very cool. Then, he struck a deal with the Swiss government: he would get knighted as Sir Edgar and gain a spot on a pee wee field hockey team of his choice. In turn, Edgar must never eat a Swiss citizen, and must also never return to Switzerland as a precaution. He chose to move to the only U.S. state whose name he knew: Ohio. A tragic decision. This is where we meet him, 17 years later… Sir Edgar woke up on October 1st, 2021 feeling sad. He missed showers, even though he prized his withered hands. He craved them, actually. At night he would lie in his bed, imagining the warm water and soap bubbles cleansing him of his 60-year-old grime. His most recent wife, Lady Meredith Evans XVI, had very clean hands. Sir Edgar was envious. She took showers every day; she was the cleanest woman he had ever laid his eyes on. Why should she be able to bathe, and he cannot?
“He missed showers, even though he prized his withered hands. He craved them, actually. At night he would lie in his bed, imagining the warm water and soap bubbles cleansing him of his 60-year-old grime.” Perhaps it was time to think of something else. Get his mind off Lady Meredith Evans XVI. His stomach then growled very loudly. Ah yes, that. He waited for so long, too long, about three years now, to eat again. He tried to prolong his fifth meal as long as he could, but to no avail. He was hungry and he felt it rumbling within the pits of his stomach. The closest person he can even think about eating was- ah, but he liked Lady Meredith Evans XVI. How could he eat her? She too had small feet and big shoes. She too filed her teeth into points. They were the perfect match. But he was so very hungry. He took out his best friend, the pole who he had named Alice so many years ago, from the big shoe it resided in. The two considered each other, admiring each other’s grime for a moment before he sighed deeply. “What should I do, best friend?” he asked mournfully. His beloved Alice said nothing, but his stomach groaned in response. He was then startled out of his ravenous thoughts by a knock at his study’s door. Lady Meredith Evans XVI was standing in the doorway, looking concerned. “Dear, why do you insist that this disgusting, rusty pole is sentient?” She said, “I worry about you sometimes.” “Dearest Lady Meredith Evans XVI you know this is no ordinary pole. This is Alice. We’ve been over this many a time, yet you always seem to forget.” At this moment, Lady Meredith Evans XVI was looking increasingly tasty to Sir Edgar.
Why have a wife when he could have Alice? Alice did not judge him. How could it? Alice had no mouth. As he was thinking this, an idea suddenly occurred to him. What if he found Alice a mouth? He could make it talk! He could finally have a two-sided conversation with his best friend. How he’d yearned for that over the years… Being able to ask about Alice’s favorite things to do, hobbies, its dreams… Sir Edgar began preparations for his quest to find Alice a mouth. He had read Frankenstein. He knew it would work. He looked at Lady Meredith Evans XVI and realized that finding a mouth might not be so difficult. After all, she did have the perfect lips for Alice. She had the pointy teeth. How Sir Edgar loved pointy teeth. “My dearest Lady Meredith Evans XVI, why don’t you come here? Let me have a look at you.” Sir Edgar beckoned his wife closer. She scuttled across the room and stopped 3.157 feet away from him. What a woman. What a delectable woman. He licked his lips. He was so, so hungry. It was time to feast. He slowly tightened his grip on Alice, preparing himself for the awful thing that he had to do. “Goodbye, my dearest. Your mouth will look lovely on Alice.” ___ Afterwards, Sir Edgar stared down at his beloved wife. All that was left of her was her mouth. A mouth that would soon belong to Alice. He took out a roll of Scotch Tape and stuck the mouth to its base, smiling back at it. “Sir Edgar,” Alice croaked in a voice that sounded just like his recently deceased wife. “Why would you end your wife in such a way?” Alice then used its pole body to strike Sir Edgar violently upon the head. Sir Edgar never tasted flesh again. Or anything, for that matter. The end.
