The Author

The language

"Any good fantasy novel has to have it's own language, something that the fanclub's and nerds can use to communicate without outsiders knowing what they are saying." I say to my little brother Nicholas as I mindlessly scribble the shapes that correspond to the words on the page.

Nicholas and I have always been close, since our father left we just grew closer. Our mother constantly working to be able to provide for the both of us. Neither of us took our father leaving very well. I was 10 when he left. It's been seven years. If only I knew why he really left.

We both latched on to fantasy, honestly I think it was a form of emotional defense. Or maybe it was a way to keep him in our life. He was a famous novelist after all. Thousands of people adored his youth novels. His worlds were so immersive and detailed almost as if they were real places, as if he had been there.

Nicholas dreamed of being an armour clad knight, being able to fight off any threat. I dreamed of being a powerful witch, to cast spells to protect and heal people. Impressing them with awe inspiring displays of magic.

"Erske Oogre Ignese" I say when I finish the last stroke.

"What does that one mean?" Nicholas asks.

"Wall of protective fire," I respond "Erske means wall Oogre means protection and ignese meas fire"

"Cool"

I close my notebook and stuff it in my bag when mother calls us for supper. It's spiral bound cover halfway torn off, with every other page filled with made up words, doodles and sketches of symbols to represent those words, and simple "spells" put together using the words found throughout the pages of this worn notebook.

I like to find my escape in many different fantasy novels, witches, warlocks, dragons and knights. I love to write stories about powerful spellcasters, being able to bend the world to their will.

I have always wanted to be in my fantasy worlds of my imagination. To have the power to be able to say a few words and have flames come out of my hands, or to be able to levitate over the ground, or put nasty curses on my high school bullies. But sadly I was stuck with just dreaming and writing about these things.

That is until I found It.

It's Thursday, and it starts just like any other day, walking to the bus stop, daydreaming the whole way.

"Erte Levitas" I say at the ground hoping for a boulder to rise up for me to ride to school, though sadly it didn't appear.

"Locomo Rapidas" I whisper hoping I'll gain super speed to run to school, but I was still stuck at a meager walk. The bus is here anyway so I give up.

"Hola ey nerdo" The kids on the bus greet me mocking my work. Of course the only open seat is right in front of them.

"Cecesa languessa" I whisper to myself hoping for their mouths to snap shut.

"No conprendo nerdo'' they say to me. It didn't seem to work it seems.

It never works.

It's another uneventful day at school, bullies, drama, tests, the works. It's the last period with my favorite teacher, Mr.Gale, and I need my books for his class, so I stop at my locker.

"Hey rosebud" I hear from behind, Axel, aka bully number one slams his fist into the locker next to me making me jump, dropping my notebook.

"So this is where you write your stupid little words?" he says picking it up before I can.

"Give. It. Back!" I say, very quickly enraged as no one touches my notebook but me. I pound his chest trying to get it back. He holds it above my head as he has a much greater height advantage. Trying to jump and grab it he shoves me to the ground.

"Real people speak English, Rosebud, here I'll help you start. This is fire" he says as he lights his lighter "this is paper, as he holds my notebook, and fire plus paper equals ash" as he sets my notebook on fire he drops it to the ground, I rush to it and try to put it out, a small part of me dies as the only thing that I could save was the front cover with my name on it.

As the school bell rings I decide to walk home, not in the mood to deal with the kids on the bus, and craving some time to myself I take the long way, nothing exciting happens, as usual. When I get home I check the mail as I usually do, but this time there is a letter in the mailbox for me. I never get mail. I look to see who sent it but there is no return address, actually. It doesn't have my address on it either. Just my name. I open it and there is just one sentence in it.

"Left you a surprise in your treehouse"

I go to my treehouse and sure enough there is a package wrapped in paper and twine. I unwrap it and see its an old looking notebook, with a very nice, old looking fountain pen hooked on its cover. I open it up and it's empty except for a page in the front that looks like a perfect spot to write my name. Taking the pen and in very delicate and beautiful strokes I write it down.

This journal belongs to

"Rosetta Budraker"

That is when my life changed.