SCRIPTUM | A Short Story Collection

Tales Through Time

Once upon a time, there was a child named Poppy. She grew up with a mother and a father and lived in a large house in the suburbs. She also had a best friend named Flora who she did everything with. Oh, and Poppy loved writing stories. As a five year old, she would scribble all day in the Disney notebook her parents had bought her. As a ten year old, she would use careful, loopy handwriting to write tales in her school journal. At fifteen, if Poppy was at her laptop, she was click-clacking away, writing up the next Harry Potter.

Poppy Vale looked down at the book in her hands, bewildered. Was she living some crazy dream? Was this a rare coincidence? Because the girl in the book...well, the girl in the book seemed a lot like her. Poppy examined her purple nails without really looking at them as she compared the events in the book to, well, the events of her life.

It was true that Poppy loved to write. She'd written so many stories—most of them unfinished—in the past years of her life that she probably couldn't even count them if she tried. And yes, Poppy had grown up with her mother and father in a large house in the suburbs with a best friend named Flora and a Disney notebook. But it couldn't be her in the story. It just couldn't be. After all, what would Poppy be doing in a book in the public library?

Self-absorbed, Poppy scolded herself. Narcissist. Of course Poppy wouldn't be in a book in the public library. What, was she suddenly some star who people wrote biographies about? As if. Sliding the paperback back on the shelf, Poppy pushed herself up from her knees and glanced around the library. What was she doing there again? Oh, right, her assignment.

"Excuse me," Poppy said as politely as she could, walking over and tapping one of the librarians on their shoulder. "Would you be able to help me find some books for a school assignment?"

"Why, of course!" The librarian turned around and flashed a much-too-bright smile. Her eyes seemed to bore into Poppy's soul as she asked, "What do you need?"

"Well, I'm doing a research project on the history of psychology, and I was wondering if you might know of any good books I could use?" Socially awkward as ever, Poppy couldn't help glancing at her feet as she spoke—Anything to get away from making eye contact—and looking at those unusual eyes of the librarian.

"Oh, yes, I most certainly do! Follow me." The librarian sped off and Poppy had to run to keep up as the woman zig-zagged through the shelves. "We've had quite a number of students come through for the exact same thing—they must be from your school too," the librarian told Poppy as they made their way across the library and down a flight of stairs. They seemed to walk for ages before the librarian stopped in front of a shelf filled with shiny new hardcovers. "We just got in a new batch of these books last week. You should find everything you're looking for here. If you need anything else, ask for Lily at the help counter."

The woman winked, then strode off. As soon as she left, Poppy bent down and pulled out the two titles that she remembered from her teacher's list of "Helpful Resources". She quickly checked them out, then hurried away from the library, both the strange book and the strange woman still fresh on her mind.

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Upon arriving in her bedroom and finding a note that her parents were out, Poppy tossed her bookbags with her library books onto her bed, then slid into the chair at her desk, flipping open her laptop at the same time. She typed in her password, then immediately opened Google Docs. Given all the events that had taken place in the last half hour or so, she had a ton to write about. But first things first.

On her way back from the library, Poppy had remembered that she'd had to write a short autobiography of herself back in...when was it? First grade? Second grade? Third grade? She wasn't quite sure. Poppy couldn't imagine what it might contain, but after seeing practically her own life on paper at the library, she wanted to read it again.

Poppy typed in a couple keywords in the search bar and hit enter. She hoped that she really had typed her mess of elementary school scribbles up in sixth grade and that she hadn't just imagined it, since everything that day was just plain old strange. The page loaded for a second, then a document popped up. "Autoiography by Poppy Vale."

A small smile crossed Poppy's face as she made a copy of the page and corrected the spelling mistake in the title. Then she began to read.

Once upon a time a long time ago, in a far far away kingdom called Planet Earth, there was a child named Poppy. She lived with a mother and a father and lived in a large house in the suburds. She also had a very best friend named Flora who she did everyting with. Poppy really loved writing stories. In five year old, she would scribble all day in the amazang Disney notebook her parents had bought her. When she was a ten yaer old, she would write in smooth and pretty and perfect handwriting in her school journal. When Poppy was a fifteen years, if Poppy was at her laptop, she was clackitying away, writing up the next Harry Potter series which is an amazing series that Poppy loved.

Poppy's jaw dropped after she read the first paragraph. If anyone entered her room right now, they'd probably look at Poppy's face and immediately dial 911, but she couldn't help it, she was utterly shocked. Why was...why was some stupid story about herself she'd written in elementary school (and got a ridiculously horrible grade on) in the public library—and an edited version of it, at that!

Calm down, Poppy told herself. You probably just imagined it. You have a huge imagination—Mom's already told you that a million times. Just forget about it. Go write another story. Forget about it.

Forget about it. Well, it wasn't like a clear explanation was going to show up at her doorstep or something, anyway. Poppy clicked out of the tab, then opened up a new document. She suddenly had inspiration.

Poppy quickly drafted out a paragraph and a half about the book about herself and the librarian with the odd eyes, then started weaving her own tale into it.

And then the woman with the soul-stabbing eyes turned towards Poppy so fast that Poppy could feel her hair rise in the breeze the woman had created. As the woman lunged towards Poppy, a shriek left Poppy's mouth and she jumped backwards, knocking over a floor lamp. All the chattering in the library came to a halt as the woman began chasing after Poppy. Poppy ran out of the library and all the way back to her empty house, out of breath as she burst through the door to her room and locked it behind her. The mad woman could be heard outside her door, growling and shouting threats, and Poppy could only pray that the woman wouldn't break through the door.

Poppy felt pleased as she sat back and read through her work. Granted, it was a little fast-paced, but she thought it perfectly summed up...hold on.

Just like in a cliché horror movie, the hairs on Poppy's arms rose as she realized something. How could her elementary school self have known that, at fifteen, she was still a writer? Why had her teacher told her to "write non-fiction, not realistic fiction" after seeing her report? And, if what her younger self had written had come true, then....

Poppy had just enough time to whip around in her chair before she heard a hissing noise outside her door and a foot broke through the wood. Poppy screamed and jumped towards the window, stepping over old assignments and notes on her desk as she struggled to pry it open. Darn that stupid window lock her parents insisted on while she was home alone! She had no key, no pliers, and no strength, unlike the monster outside her door, who at least clearly had tons of strength. All Poppy could do was press herself up against the glass of the window and watch with wide eyes as her door splintered open and the librarian tumbled into her room.