John and Carrie: Creative Writing

Pages: 6 (2371 words) Published: October 20, 2013
John and Carrie.

I'm about to share with you one of the best, worst, and wildest experiences I have ever faced.
It all started on a cold, September day, with it storming cats and dogs. I was in my bookshop, right next to the Blackleaf Lake, when he walked in. John was soaked from head to toe, and I just assumed it was from the storm. I got up off of the reading couch, and asked if he would like a towel and something dry to wear, and as I approached him I noticed what he was wearing. He looked like a laughing stock! He didn't appear to see the shock on my face, and accepted my offer graciously.

I went to my apartment above the shop and got some of my brother's old clothes, towel, and laundry basket for him to put his clothes in. I got his clothes in the dryer, and went back down to keep an eye on that fellow.

As soon as I gave him my brother's old clothes, I couldn't believe what he did!
"You bawdy bunch-backed dogfish! What the dickens are these? I cannot go in public wearing these garments!" I just stared at him. Did he really call me a bawdy bunch-backed dogfish? It really sounded like something I would read in Romeo and Juliet.

He finally looked up from his 'garments' and saw me staring at him.
I decided to brush of that insult and told him something that he already knew. "You are definitely not from around here." I was wrong.
"Yes, I am from around here. Actually, I live here. Right here. Well, next door really, but I walked to my home just to find it not there, so I came here, so tell me, Madam, where did my home go?"

I was having trouble comprehending what he was saying, but then I understood that he thought there was a house next to my shop. "Um, Mr....?"
"Jonathan."
"Okay, Mr. Jonathan, my name is Carrie. Are you alright? There hasn't been a house next to my book shop since I was born, more than twenty-six years ago."
“Nonsense. My home was there this morning, when left to my job, at the blacksmith on 4th Avenue." He said, looking quite quizzical.
"Umm, no. There was no house, there is no blacksmith, and 4th Avenue was renamed to Columbus drive four years ago. Tell me, 'Jonathan', where... and WHEN are you from?" This guy is definitely hiding something, and I was determined to find out what.

"Well, I'm from New York, and I don't know why you would ask from when, but, just like you, I'm from the seventeenth century. I do believe it is high time for you to invest in a calendar, Madam."

"First of all, I own a calendar, second, my name is Alexandria, call me Alex, and third, my calendar says it is the twenty-first century. It sounds like you are in a pickle. I think you have a long story to tell me. Come sit down and we will chat.”

I couldn’t believe it. It was like what he was saying was Greek to me. There is no way that it was true. This Jonathan was trying to make me believe he was from the seventeenth century, and he doesn’t know how he appeared in this time. He says the last thing he remembers, before waking up in the Blackleaf boathouse across the street, is walking home from his job at the blacksmiths, across town.

As much as I wanted to believe Jonathan, I knew that I shouldn’t. “Sir, are you on any medications?” I asked cautiously.
“No, I’m not on any medications, you fitful fat-kidneyed jack-a-nape!... I apologize. That was uncalled for, it’s just that I don’t know what has happened to be, when I am, or why. And I’m exhausted. Would you mind if I took a short rest?”

I got him some blankets, and let him take the couch in the reading area. I pulled the curtains, and closed up shop. This guy is nuts. But he might actually be telling the truth, and I decided to find out. I pulled up my laptop, and got to work.

First I googled ‘Blackleaf boathouse + weird men’. Nothing. I then tried ‘Blackleaf+ disappearances’. Something.
It was an old newspaper article with the headline Man Goes Missing in Blackleaf. That sounded promising. The article talked about a man who was...
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