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In Memoriam

Slawe

Charlotte and I got to know each other mostly through the chats on Wednesdays and Sunday evenings. I was her WVU site guide, too. She never actually asked me questions as her site guide, although she would send in messages about something or another to the Help Desk.

As a Fiction 99 student in the November/December session, Charlotte entered the Mentors Award contest. Now I look back at the story she submitted and find there is something about it that touches my heart in ways I never would have imagined three months earlier. I believe in my soul that Charlotte has reached the truest Writopia of all.    Judy Hunt

My Writopia

Charlotte Crane

Ah! One more line and ... there, all done. The last period is in place.

I've been working on this piece now for two months and finally, it's finished. I can't believe this started as a short story for lesson 6. It just would not end. But now, there it is, The End.

Hey, what was that? About half way up the screen, the font seemed to move. There it is again. Heck, I sure hope I haven't caught a virus. I better save this before something happens and I lose this last part. I'll download the whole thing to a disk too, so that it can't be lost in case of a hard drive failure. Suddenly, I feel that this little so-called short story is very important to me.

Hey, what's happening? Those quotes are a lot bigger than they should be. Hey! What, I don't, OH! Two sets of quotation marks grow to a humongous size and bulge right out of the screen. Just like two pairs of hands, they grab me by the collar and jerk me toward the monitor. I close my eyes and steel myself for the conk on the head I expect, but feel nothing.

Upon opening my eyes I find that things have changed somewhat. I am sitting on a small knoll of soft green grass. The fragrance is a wonderful mixture of fresh cut grass and wildflowers. There's a field of wildflowers running off in two directions to the horizon, but when I try to touch the flowers my hand meets resistance. The fields are really just pictures painted on two walls.

In another direction, there is a glass wall through which I can see a distorted view of my bedroom office. There is my chair and sitting there, just inches away, is my half-empty coffee cup. I try to reach out to the cup but again I cannot. So far, I find myself enclosed, quite closely, on three sides. I'm a little claustrophobic, and if not for the painted fields and the see-through wall giving the impression of space, I might be climbing these walls right this minute.

Instead I turn to the final wall, which is painted black. I reach out to touch it and my hand totally disappears. It looks as though the black is trying to crawl up my arm. Scared, I jerk my hand back. Ah, just like new.

What's that? I hear whistling. To my left I see the quotation marks skipping toward me, through the painted fields, whistling an old favorite of mine, Rockin' Robin.© Quite the talented quotes they are, I think. If they can whistle and abduct people, maybe they can speak.

As they approach me I ask, "Where the heck am I and why did y'all bring me here?"

One brave little quote jumps right up in my face and says, without lips I might add, "Lie back and put your feet toward the black wall. We'll take care of everything and all questions will be answered."

"Yeah, right. Why should I trust y'all?"

"What else are you going to do?" the little quote says, while the other just giggles and twitters.

"Well you have a point there, but what ... "

"No," it declares, "no more questions. Lie back and let the adventure begin."

I squiggle around so that I am able to lie down in the small enclosure. My legs extend into the awful blackness. I don't like it and am just before protesting when I feel a nudge on the top of my head and ...

Whoosh. AAAAAAGGgggghhhhhhh h h h! Plop. What a ride! It was like a cool water slide without the wet part. It was much too fast for me to be too scared. I land on my feet, surprise, surprise, right outside a sidewalk cafˇ. There are several tables and quite a few people gathered around talking and laughing. A woman extracts herself from one group and approaches me.

Extending her hand in welcome, she says, "Hi, my name is Judy and I'll be your guide."

Taking the hand offered, I tell her my name and start in with my questions. "Where am I?"

"This," she says with a sweeping motion of her hand, "is Writopia."

With her direction, I notice my surroundings for the first time. Fields of wildflowers run off in two directions to the horizon. A slight breeze is blowing the grasses and flowers, so I assume they are not painted. There are buildings scattered between lovely parks and gardens. I notice one building is a very large Library. The words on one says Barnes & Noble®, one B. Dalton Bookseller®, and another says Waldenbooks®. On and on goes the promise of books galore. Or should I say, as one building proclaims, Books A Million®. I notice a small cloud drift by with the words Amazon.com® emblazoned on it.

Wow, is this heaven or what? My heart beats faster just being this close to so many books.

Judy leads me to a table away from the other groups and offers me a seat. I notice that there are notepads and pencils on every surface. I reach out and touch the paper and get goosebumps as always. Judy sees me and I blush, embarrassed, but she nods her head in understanding.

"Would you like coffee or a latte?"

"Yes, coffee would be great, thank you. Black, please."

After placing the order Judy turns to me, pats me on the hand and says, "Don't be embarrassed by feelings. This is a place designed for a writer's heart. Writopia is here to bring writers together for the enrichment, encouragement, and nurturing of their talents. Writopia was established a long time ago by a genius named Bob Hembree."

Leaning closer and in a conspiratory whisper, she says, "Don't ever call him that to his face though, because he would deny it."

The coffee arrives and after a sip Judy continues, "He wanted a place where writers could gather to learn and share the joys of their craft. A place where they could be comfortable and get needed feedback without the fear of being rejected or ridiculed."

I lean in toward Judy, so as not to be heard by others and misunderstood. "How do you make sure that bad guys are not allowed in to wreak havoc on the writing community and possibly dash the future of a budding New York Times® Bestseller writer by giving harsh and harmful critiques?"

"We have a little test we run a few of times a year called FictionXX. You remember it don't you?"

A nod from me and she explains, "Well at the end of those six weeks, only the most dedicated writers are left hanging on. To complete the class and participate even with all the other lifely duties hacking away at our time and imagination is quite a feat. And to do it and enjoy it is fantastic. Most ne'er-do-wells don't hold out. And some are found out early and asked to leave."

With another sweep of her hand, she exclaims, "So we invite from that test all who show an interest in continuing their learning in an atmosphere geared just for writers."

"Am I being ... "

"Yes," she answers the question on my lips, "this is your invitation. And no, everyone is not invited in just this manner. All invitations are different according to what suits the individual. We thought you might like this one. Don't worry, you won't have to enter Writopia just this way again." She hands me a slip of paper. "Here, take this password, it is your key to the city. With it you may come and go as you wish, and as your creative drive commands you. Do you accept?"

"This is heaven."