Castle Paradox

[Junair Wiare]

If you recognize the title, it's because it was for an English assignment lots of people have to do where they show you a picture, and give you a title and a sentence, and you have to work the title and sentence in (The bolded sentence is the one I had to work in).

Still, I like it alot.

Enjoy.

Your comments would be appreciated.



Mr. Linden's Library
He had, as a matter of course, warned her about The Book. Still, best to check on her. You never knew with girls.
Mr. Linden sighed, put down his coffee cup, and made his way arthritically up the stairs. They creaked even under his paltry weight. He reached the summit, paused for a moment to catch his breath—Mr. Linden had received a wound in The War, and hadn't recovered fully since—then turned off right, towards the Library.
The room was not, in point of fact, a library. It was actually a courtroom—Mr. Linden and his wife, Ms. Linden, lived in an old courthouse. It still had many of the trappings of a courtroom; witness stand, judge's box, the stepped seats; but Mr. Linden had added bookshelves around the room, and filled them with books, which, in Mr. Linden's opinion, constituted a library. Or, in this case, A Library. Another irritating thing about The Book: It caused capital letters.
Still grousing quietly to himself, Mr. Linden heaved open the door. Being near-sighted, he did not immediately perceive the scene which, had he but known where his glasses were and had them on at the moment, would have caused a cry of terror to pass his lips.
As it was, Mr. Linden simply called out, "My dear?" in the general direction of the purple blob he thought was his niece. As it happened, the blob in question was, in fact, her raincoat.
At last he drew within sight of her. And from his lips came a sound that, in a lesser, less masculine of males, we would be obliged to call a scream of high-pitched, girlish terror. The Book was lying open on Its pedestal, and she was reading It.
Although reading might not be the word. The pages flipped past at a frantic rate, the text changing from second to second: Now red and Greek, now purple and Japanese, now pink and some language never seen on this Earth. Her eyes were wide, and joyful.
Suddenly, her expression changed. That look of happiness, of serenity, was instantly replaced by one of terror, of anguish, of sorrow, of fear, as the true nature of The Book revealed itself. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, a scream none in this world could hear.
He had warned her about The Book. Now it was too late.

* * * * *

She tried to open her eyes. No response. Odd. Toes? No, nothing there either. No sound, for that matter.
Perhaps she was dead? She'd never been quite sure about what, if anything, happened after death. If this was it, then it was very dull indeed.
She decided she'd best get down to first causes.
The Book. That was it of course, it was Its fault. But… Why?
The full title of The Book had been The Book of the Planes and how a Traveler may Traverse Them.
Planes. The word was familiar. She was sure it didn't refer to airplanes; The Book hadn't mentioned them—or, if so, only in passing. The Book had seemed to mention quite a lot of things.
Ah, now she remembered.
She had a friend, Alex, who was a Dungeons & Dragons, Magic: the Gathering, Internet, type person. In short, a geek. She remembered once she'd made the mistake of asking him about, as he affectionately termed it, D&D. He'd launched into a monologue more or less immediately:
"Ya see, our world, or, more accurately, our universe, is actually just a part of a much, much larger sort of Universe, the Multiverse, which is a collection of Planes, which are places on which sentient creatures dwell—such as elves, or people, or what-have-you. D&D takes place on another one of these Planes, and is played using the following di—"
Okay, so she'd cut him off at that point. Alex had an annoying habit of talking in a monotone.
So, that explained it then. She was in some sort of, other Plane, or something. A sentence, a mere fragment, of some words in The Book suddenly filled her memory.
"It should be noted that just after a Traveler moves into a new plane, that Traveler will experience a certain temporary sensory deprivation. However, the ability to sense will return after a time, generally around five minutes (E. T.)."
Ah. And, sure enough, her senses had started to come back to her. She could now perceive a roof above her. And, she realized with a jolt, it was the roof of the library—or rather, she thought, The Library.
Phew.
She turned her head to the side, where Uncle Archie ought to have been. Instead of that aged peer, however, she instead saw a pair of trouser legs pacing back and forth.
The trouser legs were, of course, attached to a man. Or rather, a Man. The man or Man in question was tallish, around 6'3", dressed in a tweed suit, and on the older side of the hill, but not so old that he'd lost his ability to impress. We'll say mid-fifties.
He was speaking with great speed and fluency, although she couldn't yet hear anything, so the effect was somewhat wasted on her.
She turned towards the judge's box. Which was when she was really, for the first time she'd regained consciousness, surprised. The rest of the time she'd been too shocked to be surprised.
Because there, in the judge's box, instead of the usual six canes and some sort of odd stick with flowers on, was a chalkboard. The surprising part, of course, wasn't that. It was what was on, or rather, slightly above, it. Drawn on it in a crude hand—a six year old's drawing, really—was a sketch of a judge, complete with wig. Eraser and chalk hovered above. Then, suddenly, the chalk moved slightly, and the expression on the judge's face changed from two dots with a straight line under them to two dots with another line, this one with the ends pulled down, under them.
Next to the judge's stand, in the witness' box, was a pot of flowers.
Suddenly, sound came rushing back. She could hear, now, the Man behind her's voice, which was forceful, and persuasive. She could, too, hear the noise of the chalkboard as it changed yet again—the hand was now picking the nose idly, and had gained three additional fingers, evidently for that purpose--, and behind her…
Yes, she was right. Behind her were, ten, no, twelve, more chalkboards, sitting in the jury box.
These were small, just big enough to show the faces of the people—or perhaps they were jurors—who were… Were they there? More of them then the faces, that is. It was hard to tell.
Behind the pacing Man was another man, sitting with a bored, glum expression in the defendant's attorney's desk. He bore a certain resemblance to Perry Mason.
Suddenly, he opened his mouth, and stated, with the happy certainty of one who is sure that, this time, this one, lucky, blessed time, he has got it right: "Objection, Your Honor, badgering the Witness—or, should I say, the Defendant!"
She turned, quickly, to look at the judge—perhaps now is the time to mention that she was sitting in the center of the courtroom—and saw his picked nose expression go, with a look of guilt, to one of honest and righteous concern and anger. A speech balloon drew itself on the board, and words started to write themselves in: "Yes, I must say Eternal Prosecutor, that does strike me as a bit above the odds."
She turned towards the witness's box. The flower was sitting there with, if it is possible for a pot of daffodils to have an expression, an expression of outraged indignation on its countenance. Munching confidently on the leaves was, not exactly to her surprise, a badger, looking happy and smug.
Chalkboard's scratched behind her.
"I'm sorry, Your Honor, shan't occur again." Said the Eternal Prosecutor.
The speech bubble erased itself, to be replaced by a fancy sort of scroll:
"This court has heard all the evidence in favor of, and against, the conviction of The Following Parties: Ms. J. Vello Daffodil. This Judge has reached its own decision, however that decision is not its to make. The eternal fate of this flower rests in you, the jury, one and all residents of the Multiverse and therefore susceptible to its duties. We shall now hear the closing statements, whereupon you shall deliberate and decide the fate of this soul."
The Eternal Prosecutor rose, and spoke:
"Ladies and gentleman of the Jury, it has been my pleasure, my honor, my duty to serve you by presenting the true account of the events surrounding Ms. Daffodil.
"None of has lead a blameful life. And, when that life is drawn to a close, we are tried by This Court to decide what shall be the Fate of our souls.
"Ms. Daffodil's life has been particularly unblameless—you will, of course, recall the incident I mentioned when she deliberately crowded, to the point of death, two growing bean sprouts--, and I ask the Jury to, should it please It, to consider the evidence and grant Ms. Daffodil a ticket straight to Lower Heaven."
"Thank you, Eternal Prosecutor. Now you, Mr. Pudgy Manson."
The man in the seat of the Counsel of the Accused stood, sighed, and addressed the court:
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen of the cour—Ah, no wait, looking out the window, I discover it's mid-morning. Good mid-morning, ladies and gentleman of the court.
"I cannot fight this; the evidence is not on my side. I must, instead, appeal to your senses of justice, of empathy.
"I ask you to consider what you would want done, was it you in the box right now, standing trial.
"Thank you ladies and gentleman of the court. I trust you will come to the right decision, following your hearts."
At this, the Judge, at least, groaned. Or, rather, erased, with some reluctance, the fancy scroll and replaced it with, "*GroanS*"
"It is time, good Jury, to deliberate together and decide the fate of Ms. Daffodil."
The small Jury chalkboards turned, so they were facing away from the court, and a very rapid and frequent scratching could be heard.
Five minutes later, they turned back to the court.
"Your Honor, Mr. Manson, Eternal Prosecutor, Ms.: We have come to a decision. We have tried The Defendant in our hearts, and found her guilty of the crimes she has been accused of.
"However, justice must be tempered also with Mercy.
"Therefore this Court sentences Ms. Daffodil to five years in purgatory, followed by a permanent residence in Lower Heaven. "
The flowerpot suddenly vanished in a puff of smoke.
There was a general relaxing around the court. The Eternal Prosecutor drew out a cigarette, and, apparently for the first time, noticed her. He gave a wink, then continued to concentrate on His lung-killer—although, somehow, she doubted it affected Him in the least.
A drawing of a gavel pounded on side of the chalkboard.
"Court is now in session! Will the Accused come to the witness' box, please?"
Noone moved in the court.
"Ahem. Ms., will you please?" said the Judge, staring at her with eyes like—and this was a literal thing—saucers.
"Me?!"
"Certainly. You are the accused."
"What's the crime?"
"Traversing the planes without license or report. "
"The punishments?" she said, knees quaking.
"Oh… Various. Nothing worse than the death penalty, certainly." He said, not looking at her.
"The what?!"
For the first time, she noticed the bailiff. He was a large, scary thing: A pitbull. He was looking at her with a distinctly primal look in his eye. He was on a chain, which was attached to a strange, glowing thing with the letter "f" on it. Looking at the judge's chalkboard, she saw it had a button on it labeled "f" on it. Oh dear.
With the best dignity she could muster, she ascended the stairs to the box.
"Good girl." Said the Prosecutor, and rose to do His job.

* * * * *
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"I do believe your Squid exists. I really do, you know?"

[LeRoy_Leo]

Word choice is always important when you are composing a short stroy. You pull this off quite well. Your grammar in most parts, however, seems rather crude to me. No offense meant though. It just may be a dialect problem, which isn't that much of a problem at all. As long as one keeps the reader's interest, then this is fine. And furthermore, the story is rather interesting. Just a tad rehashed, mind you, but not so much that it leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Well done.

Oh right. I have a suggestion for you. I would suggest proofreading this one more time. Look for run on sentences. Thank you, and good luck.
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Planning Project Blood Summons, an MMORPG which will incinerate all of the others with it's sheer brilliance...

---msw188 ---
"Seriously James, you keep rolling out the awesome like gingerbread men on a horror-movie assembly line. "

[Junair Wiare]

... Yah, I have an issue with run-on. My problem: I like runons. Quite alot, actually.
_________________
"I do believe your Squid exists. I really do, you know?"