Melindiana Jones and the Treasure of the Caroline Caves and Judge's Report from Melinda Szymanik: II

Judges Report

Wow the Caroline Caves were filled with some very interesting treasures and secrets this week. And poor old Melindiana Jones got into some really tight spots. As always, editing is the key to making your story the best it can be. Some of you definitely could have done with more commas and full stops. I thought Victor Gan’s idea of a land of dinosaurs was very interesting and I liked Caroline Moratti’s twist with Melindiana becoming tired of her exciting yet dangerous adventures. Most dramatic ending goes to Tupene Valili with this

But it was too late they had come in I was terrified what would happen to the village. The menacing creatures came into the village and attacked all of us. Right now I am hurt by being attacked one of the creatures there big jaws attacked. I have been writing this to warn the whole Planet Fabo. 2 I hope you defeat these creatures and forgive me for releasing this cre……….

Best place name was Matthew Illing’s ‘Fabomuda Triangle’. Matilda Clack had some very poetic descriptions and Liv Coulter and Livy Maher (who collaborated on a story together) wrote a very polished story. And (drum roll please) this week’s winner is Isla Jackson for a well written and colourful story.



Melindiana Jones and the Treasure of the Caroline Caves

Slashing at the thick vines with the machete she held in her right hand, Melindiana Jones took another bite of the flat bread and piranha sandwich in the other. She hated fish but they had left civilization behind days ago and piranha were the only edible and catchable thing left in the Mewburn River that flowed down to Thompson Swamp. The piranha had eaten everything else in the river except the rubber-like crocs which were indigestible, although they made great hard-wearing shoes and each of the tribes-people in Jones’s team now had a pair. Though the shoes were great it didn’t make her sandwich taste any better. Not that food back home at Hard-Vard University where she worked part time as a teacher was any better. Too much soup-in-a-cup for her tastes. Everything was bland and the sandwiches were just so…so…square. 1935 hadn’t been a very good year for Melindiana. It had been a relief to take the sea plane down to South Allerica on another adventure.
She shoved the rest of the sandwich in her mouth and took to slashing with two hands. The entrance to the Caroline Caves was around here somewhere. The map the old guide had given her was faded, with a ragged hole in the middle where it had been unfolded and folded countless times over the centuries. She’d studied it in broad daylight. She’d pored over it at night in her tent under the jittery glow of the paraffin lamp. Everything led to that hole in the middle. At first Melindiana cursed her luck that the information she needed, the last few clues that would bring her to what could be the greatest find of her archaeological career, had been obliterated by the careless hands of her predecessors. But as she’d lain in her cot the night before, checking and rechecking the flimsy parchment she’d had a brilliant idea. The hole wasn’t an accident. It was deliberate.
The closer they got to the hole in the map, the closer and thicker the vines grew. She was sure someone was following them. She had to reach the caves first. Jones ignored the delicate, fragrant orchids as she pushed forward, crushing them underfoot, releasing their delicious aroma. Sweat poured off her brow.
“Thoc!” The tip of her croc shoe hit something hard. Melindiana parted the vegetation round her foot and jumped back in horror. She’d heard all those stories about the explorers who had gone before her and never been seen again. She always just considered them idle rumours put about by the tribes-people to keep folk away. After all, the map hadn’t got lost she reasoned. But the skull at her feet told a different story. The rest of her team piled in to the back of her as she stood frozen looking at the empty head grinning up at them. A chorus of shrieks rang out from the tribes-people, and startled birds flew up out of the trees above them as everyone except Melindiana and her trusted sidekick Big Mac, who wasn’t really all that big, took to their heels and ran back the way they’d come.
“I recognize that face,” Big Mac said leaning forward to examine the skull. Melindiana took a closer look.
Livingston, I presume,” Melindiana said. Big Mac nodded. “He was always taking credit for my discoveries,” Melindiana went on. “I won’t miss him.”
“What do you think happened to him?” Big Mac said.
Melindiana shrugged. “Probably died waiting for me to turn up and find the caves for him. C’mon, let’s finish this job.”

With both Melindiana and Big Mac wielding machetes the vines fell faster and after another dozen strokes they found that Melindiana’s discovery about the map was true. A ragged blackness opened up in front of them and before they could step back or alter their course they were both falling, sucked into the pitch black vacuum of what could only be the Caroline Caves, sliding on a slippery surface, down, down down…

“ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.” Melindiana yelled.
“ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH,” Big Mac screamed.
With a whump! they reached the bottom.
“Tchsk!” Big Mac scraped a match across the sole of his boot and the sudden glow of the flame pushed the darkness back.
“Here,” Melindiana said grabbing some wood off the floor and wrapping her jacket round the top, held it to the head of the match. The fabric burst alight just as the match sputtered and went out.
They were in a vast cavern, with dry rock walls and a paved rock floor littered with old dry branches and a jumble of other stuff.
“We are not the first to come here,” Big Mac said, poking a pile of bones with the toe of his boot.
“Look,” Melindiana said, pointing to two blackwood chests by the cave wall. She rushed over and kneeling, pulled at the lid of the first box. Flakes of red rust from the iron clasp came off in her hand. Big Mac brought his machete down and the clasp fell apart under the blow. The lid creaked open.
“Documents?” Big Mac said.
“They look like…recipes…” Melindiana gasped. “Chicken fried in eleven herbs and spices…” she read out from the top sheet.
Suddenly they heard a noise: feet scuffling in the blackness just beyond the firelight. Then a figure stepped out of the gloom: a man in a white suit with a little black bow at his neck and a strange pointy beard. Before he realised what she was doing Melindiana shoved one of the papers into her back pocket. The man in the white suit grabbed the rest out of her other hand.
“I’ll take those, thank you,” he said in a posh Kentucky accent.
“Stanley?” Big Mac asked.
“No,” the man said with a laugh. “You can call me the Colonel.” And in a swirl of dust and sparks and a savoury smell he was gone.
“Not again,” cried Big Mac.
“I know,” Melindiana said. “This happens every time.” She got to her feet. “Well at least I managed to save one of the recipes.”
“What’s it for?” Big Mac asked.
Melindiana peered at the faded writing.
“Hamburger,” she said, reading down the rest of the page.
“Whatever that is,” grumbled Big Mac.
“Big Mac,” Melindiana said with a smile. “This changes everything.”

The End.

A FaBo Fairytale : Melinda Szymanik

Well it was an interesting bunch of stories submitted this week to start this year's Fabo story challenge.

Melinda certainly rose to the challenge of introducing imagination to the FaBo Planet...nostril hair tho?

Check out the winning students story on the Winner's page and Melinda's report to get some cool writing tips and join us for this weeks challenge, (see the sidebar....)

Take it away Melinda!

The Three Arty Faeries

Once upon a time, in a far away place, there lived a proud and important man. Lord of the Over Council Imagination Committee, Professor Nottin Spyre had been charged with the job of protecting his people from their own imaginations. He had a beautiful wife, a perfect baby daughter and more power than any ordinary man could ever wish for, although he lived in a dull, grey world without art or creativity. Not long after the birth of their first child, Enid, the couple planned a party to celebrate her arrival. They invited everyone they could think of but because they lacked any imagination they forgot to invite Gouache, Arpeggio and Grammar: the three faeries of the Arts from the abandoned Institute of Combined Arts and General Creativity. One of the Professor’s first tasks when appointed Lord of the Over Council Imagination Committee, had been to shut the institute down. Now parents kept their children away from the derelict building where strange coloured figures were seen flitting along empty corridors and weird noises were heard, with haunting tales of mysterious ghosts.

On the day of the party guests bestowed their best wishes on Enid as they arrived and passed their gifts (mostly nappies, socks and soap on a rope because they lacked any imagination), to Professor and Mrs Spyre. Everyone enjoyed their glasses of water (without flavouring or carbonation because of the absence of imagination) and bread without any spreads (you can guess why if you are getting the hang of this no imagination thing by now). The guests shared boring chitchat and admired the pale cream walls of the grand hall at Spyre Mansion. The Professor and his wife remained at the front door, their baby cradled in Mrs Spyre’s loving arms.

The sky darkened. In a flash of searing brightness three faeries suddenly stood on the doorstep.

In unison they spoke,

“Imagination cannot be denied…”

Then Gouache, dressed in a rainbow coloured gown said, “My birthday gift to your daughter is the gift of art. Her paintings will be beyond compare and will inspire anyone who looks on them.”

“My gift is the gift of poetry,” recited Grammar, clothed in sweetest pink. “She will combine words in a way that breathes new life into them.”

“And my gift,” sang Arpeggio, in a cloak of shimmering blue, “is the gift of melody. Your daughter will put her poetry to music. Her songs will delight and cheer everyone who hears them.”

The three cackled in chorus, waved their wands over Enid’s head, turned three times and were gone.

The professor turned to his wife. “We can’t allow this,” he said so only she could hear. “This would be the end of my job if word got out that our daughter is artistic.”

Meanwhile, ignored by all, a fourth faerie in a black cape bestowed a gift. “You cannot suppress the imagination forever. On her sixteenth birthday a dashing hero will come and unlock young Enid’s creativity.” The sprite breathed on Enid’s head and before anyone even noticed she was there, she had gone.

When the party was over and everyone had left, Nottin locked his daughter in the highest tower of his palatial home, paid a woman to take care of her and never spoke of Enid again. When she realised she could not persuade her husband to change his mind, and too afraid to have another gifted child, Mrs Spyre consoled herself with McRonald’s burgers until she eventually died of a broken heart. The years passed and Professor Spyre, satisfied that he had well and truly eradicated any sign of imagination, stepped down from his job with the Imagination Committee. Now deaf and more than a little vague he had forgotten all about Enid and the faeries and how many years were passing.

Young Dash drove his clapped out Fabota car through the dark forest. He’d left his home in New Yawn on the east coast of Allerica days before, bored with everything and sure there must be more to life than this. With no car radio or audio books to listen to he began feeling sleepy until suddenly a shadow stepped out of the shadows. It was an old woman, hunched over with age, swathed in a black cape. Dash slowed the car as he watched her raise a knobbly thumb in the classic hitch-hiker gesture. The Fabota slid to a halt and Dash wound down his window.

A vicious smell blew into the car. Filth crusted the old woman’s cape and Dash saw enough dirt under her fingernails to grow pomatoes in. But Dash didn’t mind. He covered his nose and said,

“Need a lift?”

The old woman shook her head.

“What a nice boy you are. You will find what you are seeking. Take this magic hamburger,” she said passing him a small round parcel wrapped in greaseproof paper. It felt warm in Dash’s hand. “And these three hairs,” she continued, pulling three long, dark, brown ones from her left nostril. “You will know what to do with them when the time comes.” Dash took the gifts and climbing back into his car, cranked the handle, pumped the gas pedal and took off into the gloom.

The trees closed in around him, growing taller and thicker and closer together with every passing mile. Again he felt sleepy. Dash wound the windows down to try and keep himself awake with the cold night air. Instead a strange noise came down the road towards him and like a magnet he felt drawn towards it. Soon he found himself parking in front of an old mansion house in the middle of the overgrown forest.

There was that noise again, a lilting sound floating down from above. Dash could not help but feel cheered. Looking up he saw a fair young woman peering from a window in the highest tower. The wonderful sound was coming from her and Dash was overwhelmed with the desire to meet her.

“Um,” he said, staring up at the smooth wall above him. He pulled the old woman’s gifts from his pocket. The package was mushed but he opened it up and the smell of the burger was so delicious he gobbled it up immediately. He felt strong but the window was too high to jump up to. Dash needed a ladder. As he looked at the three nostril hairs in his hand they thickened and lengthened until they were each like a rope.

“Hey that’s cool,” he said scratching his head but he still couldn’t figure out what to do. Someone tapped him on the shoulder.

“A bit of creative thinking would have been handy,” a voice said. Dash wheeled around. The beautiful young woman stood behind him, a bed-sheet rope dangling down the wall behind her.

“It’s alright,” she said. “I’ve been climbing down for years. My name’s Enid. I’m the singer in a band ‘The Faeries’ down at the Institute. Then I teach an art class at eight. Can you give me a lift there? Walking is such a drag.”

“Sure,” Dash said smiling and he unlocked his car and opened the passenger door for her.

The End