Only in Neverland (under revision)

Story Time

"Gwendy, 'tis story time!" Angela yelled, jumping like a mental patient on my duvet cover. She couldn't quite pronounce either of my names so went about by calling me Gwendy. I loved this nickname more then any I could have, because it sounded so much like Wendy.

"Is it really? Already?" I played out the whole charade. "Well, then I suppose that means I must tell you a story."

"Oh yes, Gwendy, please do!" She pleaded with me, clasping her hands tightly together. "Please, please, please!"

"Alright, alright. Settle down, now." I giggled at my sister's excitement. "Very well, I shall tell you a tale... of Tinker Bell?"

Angela pursed her lips in pondering the idea.

"No, no, you're right," I continued. "That just will not do, now will it? Well... I could tell you what became of the Lost Boys."

"Oh! I would love to hear more of them. Quickly! Gwendy, start it."

I began with my favorite beginning line for any of my own Chronicles, "Only in Neverland. Yes, Only in Neverland had the 7 Lost Boys lived. They did not know the law or the expectations of London society. And they ran down the halls in this very home, yelling and screaming—shattering lamps and knocking over bookshelves.

"Now, at supper time, they were absolute pigs. Jabbing fingers into gooey mash potatoes and slurping up pasta. Wendy would watch in such disgust that she would lose her appetite. As Wendy pushed away her plate her mother or father, and sometimes our great great great great Aunt Millicent, if she were there, would yell, 'Tootles,' or whoever was at fault, 'Stop that this instant and eat like a gentleman!'

"It was not that the Lost Boys were rebellious, they just didn't understand what the big uprising was about. 'Why do our mother and father yell at us so, when we do nothing wrong?' they would wonder. In fact, sometimes they tried their very hardest to behave themselves, if they comprehended enough to do so, but it would end up having the complete opposite effect of that intended."

I continued on with the story, telling how Slightly grew to be a wonderful roll in media, as a journalist, and Tootles acted as infamous villains on stages world wide. Nibs traveled into space and lost control, tragically never to be found again, though anyone with at least half a brain would know he was probably having loads of fun on some planet or another. The twins became assassins, fighting crime, or so people reported to have witnessed. And Curly pursued a love for watching over children in prams, making certain they didn't fall out of them, like he and the other six that had been with Peter had done as babies.

"And Peter Pan, of course, is still 'second to the right and straight on 'til morning', having endless adventures," I ended the short piece I had just created.

Applauding wildly, Angela cried out, "It was the ideal ending."

No, my stories were not nearly as lovely as Grandmother Wendy's, although I am 12, just as she was when she would tell the most amazing tales. But my sister always had the same reaction—delighted and wondrously happy. Yet, she was only seven and her opinion was hard to rely on.

"Time for bed, little one," I informed her. 

"Noooooo," she whined. "I refuse! I will NOT go to bed. I wish to stay up late and have fun with you, Gwendy."

"As you wish, but I am going to bed. You will only be bored and lonely," I said disappointing her greatly.

"I... I don't think you are very convincing!" she fibbed, with not a single sincere word. 

"Well, it will be your very own fault when Captain Hook's ghost comes to haunt you," I warned, rolling onto my side.

"Are you telling the truth?" she whispered loudly.

"Yes, he sneaks into the bedrooms of little girls who don't go to bed when they are told," I mumbled into the pillow. 

"I don't believe it."

"Alright, but don't say I didn't warn you!"

Angela huffed a sigh and I saw, through slitted eyes, her look nervously around and finally scurry over to her bed a few yards from mine. 

I nestled into a comfortable position and fell into a very deep sleep. Images flashed vividly and briskly through my mind. 

The images were of a new story. Of Peter Pan. Although this time Wendy never woke up, never knew that there was a boy in her room. So, she went on to grow up, get rid of Nana, and marry the son of another banker. Peter wasn't aware of this, for he had had his life ended by Captain Hook. The awfully big adventure of living was impossible without Wendy's help.

I woke up, my eyes pouring tears. The dream was the most deplorable thing. It had been as if the hands of time had turned back and made everything mixed up and one dreadful train of events. I had always thought it impossible to imagine this scenario, but in my twisted dream, I had.

That's not how it happened, I reassured myself. Peter met Wendy, and Captain Hook was defeated. Yes, she grew up and had children, but it had happened—for a fact—that she met Peter Pan and everything was okay.

Thinking it was not convincing enough. "That's not how it happened," I whispered aloud.

And then I thought I heard, "Wendy, Wendy!" being called, gently. As soon as I swiveled my head it vanished. The very same thing had happened for the last four days. It was most peculiar, but I knew to just ignore it and go back to sleep. My mind simply enjoyed playing tricks on me.

I put my head back down and closed my eyes, ready to return to my slumber. Then, I bolted up, again. I had heard the same calling, only louder this time. That had never happened in past nights.