Notebook for Fantastical Observations (13 page)

Here’s what else I know about it:

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Some of the creatures in this notebook have a very good sense of humor. These are the knock-knock jokes I would share with them:

A poem about a story:

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A story about a poem:

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Sketches of phookas:

Their wings resembled leaves, but their faces seemed almost human.

FROM
B
OOK
2: T
HE
S
EEING
S
TONE

I grew up in the city, but we would visit my grandparents in the country for the holidays. I hated it. You would think that it would be easy to sleep with only the noises of crickets out the window, but it’s actually pretty impossible if you’re not used to it. My ears would strain for the familiar sounds of cars and people and when they didn’t hear anything, they would strain even harder. They would strain so hard that they would wake me up so I could concentrate on listening too.

And when I did hear something, it was hard to figure out what it was. Branches from the overgrown trees scratching against the aluminum siding of the house sounded a lot like the claws of a monster. A dog howling in the distance sounded like how I figured a werewolf might sound. Dogs sure didn’t howl like that in the city.

But the worst thing of all was the darkness. In the city, there were always lights twinkling in the
distance, neon signs brightening the streets underneath my window. Out in the country, at night, the sky was as black as the inside of a closet. Mom said my eyes would adjust, but they never did.

One weekend after Thanksgiving, I was lying in the bed in the guest room, next to Grandma’s sewing machine and teetering stacks of fabric taller than me. I had the blanket pulled over my head in case anything was looking though the window, but I could see a little bit through a small hole in the fabric. More than anything, I wanted to put on the overhead light, but I knew some adult would come along and shut it off.

I tossed and turned, but when I closed my eyes, the darkness of my lids was too dark. The silence left me waiting for
something
. I didn’t know what, but my heart raced regardless.

Opening my eyes, I saw lights outside the window, dozens of them, like strings of holiday twinklers. My bare feet hit the cold wooden floorboards before I could think about it. My fear was gone, replaced by a nameless excitement. My breath frosted the window
glass as I stared out at the little creatures. They were tiny and winged, but they looked more like tiny people than bugs. They darted around a knot on the old oak tree that seemed to have swung open on tiny hinges. Looking closer, I saw some of them enter the tree. It was hollow, lit from the inside by their tiny, glowing bodies. I watched them out there, whirling through the air, for many minutes without them seeming to notice me, or me caring if they did.