Chapter 7 -(by Maya Lee)
Neither Florence nor Violet could sleep that night. You would think it would be pretty easy to fall asleep in a room that was an exact replica of the room you grew up in. It wouldn’t be particularly easy to fall asleep when you were fully aware that you were on an alien planet, that your entire species could be brainwashed into wiping out the planet on which you currently resided, and that your best friend/butler could be one of those brainwashed-wiping-out-zombies. That would be the obvious reason of why you would be suffering from insomnia on an alien planet. But Florence and Violet were not that typical. They were actually too excited to sleep.
“Vi . . . psstt! Violet!” whispered Florence to her sister as they lay in their beds across the room from each other. “Are you awake Violet?”
“Yeah! I can’t possibly sleep. This is just too . . . awesome!” answered Violet in the same hushed tone.
“I know, right?! I don’t know why Dad is so freaked out about this. But I wish Harrison was here. . . I’m worried about him,” said Florence.
“Me too. I do hope he’s alright. I can’t imagine what it would be like to never see Harrison again. I believe he’s still alive . . . But while we’re both here . . . What do you want to do?”
“Well . . . we could read that diary we found today. That was pretty interesting,” suggested Florence. With that, she reached under her pillow and pulled out the old, battered diary. Violet tip-toed over to Florence’s bed, and they turned on a lamp and cuddled to read . . .
September 13th
Hello again. It’s still me, Becka. Gosh, I don’t even remember the last time I wrote in this thing. . . The last time I was in Russia I left this diary here. That was back when I was twelve. Well, now I’m twenty, and I’m only back in Russia to go to this wedding for a relative I’ve never even met before. I guess my life still isn’t that interesting since the last time I wrote in this diary. . . It’s still really weird to be writing in this. . . I can’t believe I wrote about that jerk Christopher all the time when I was twelve. . . But Jake, my younger brother, still is really, really, really annoying.
Bye, Becka
September 13th, but at night
So I can’t sleep. This big old Russian house always gave me the heeby-geebies.
When I opened this diary to write in it this morning, a letter fell out. It looked pretty old, but it wasn’t dated, so I couldn’t tell just how old it was. It’s written in this pretty handwriting that looks like my mom’s. In the letter, it talked about how the writer, Anna, misses her sister, a girl named Danika. It goes on and on about how much she misses Danika, how their home isn’t this same since Danika got kidnapped, and how her entire family is always acting all torn up about the whole ordeal. Danika, Danika, Danika. I guess the little girl must’ve been pretty important, huh? It kind of sounded like the whole family revolved around her. The writer describes how Danika had so much energy, and she was always so perky that she made everyone else feel animated. I guess it would be pretty depressing if the centerpiece of your family was stolen. Towards the end of the letter there are little splotches of water on the page that smudge the ink. I think they’re tears. Poor Anna. Poor Danika. If my younger brother Jake were kidnapped, I’d be pretty stoked.
I think these people were in my family. I know that the girl Anna was my grandmother, but she passed away the last time I was in Russia when I was twelve. That must mean that this Danika person was my great aunt. Wow. My great aunt was kidnapped when she was just a kid. Weird. Maybe that little girl in the pictures I found last time I was here is Danika. I can just imagine that cute little tot running around the house all day with that pale pink tutu on, refusing to take it off. She’s so precious. I can see how she would brighten people’s days. I’m thoroughly creeped out now. Little Danika Nesbit sounds like quite a character.
Florence peeked over at her sister, who was peacefully snoring softly. Sleepily, Florence tucked the diary back under her pillow and turned out her light.
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The next day, the Thatcher twins decided to ‘people-watch’.
“Oh, Violet, I feel restless! We’ve been cooped up in this house for an entire day! I miss the beaches, and ocean, and the trees!” whined Florence with a wistful expression on her face.
“Florence! Nyarl Nyarl Incy-Fustular can be just as fun and as interesting as a beach or the ocean! Here, let me show you,” exclaimed Violet, and with that she pulled her twin sister over to the window of their room.
Outside of the window it was just another typical and boring day to the fine occupants of Nyarl Nyarl Incy-Fustular. But to Florence and Violet, it was another world – literally.
They had never seen such boredom. Everything was gray. The streets, the buildings, even every piece of clothing on display in store’s windows. The only splashes of colour came from the hair of the aliens. It was either a blazing shade of pink, or a brilliant electric blue. Florence and Violet had always thought a city would be a bustling place to be – never a dull moment. This was certainly not the case with this planet.
The Tibhadens walked far away from each other, as if they preferred not to touch anything. Even a little Tibhaden boy walked a couple feet away from his mother. They walked stiffly; it almost looked like they were marching. All of their expressions remained stoic and unreadable. If you were to guess what any one of the aliens was thinking just by looking at his or her expression you would not have been able to decipher their thoughts. Their faces looked slightly humanoid. Apart from the hair there really was no difference between the two species’ appearances, other than the fact that all the Tibhadens kept a permanent, impassive look of nonchalance plastered on their faces.
Florence and Violet pointed and gawked at the aliens with disbelief. How could any planet be so . . . stupendously dull? Everyone and everything on the planet (or so it seemed to Florence and Violet) pretty much summed up the essence of the word boring.
Florence and Violet pondered for the rest of the day, how could Tibsen and Quadenhaden come from this emotionally desolate, monotonous world?
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