There are many ways a story can be told, but through a blog? Well, why not! Those of you who know me by now know that I like to tell tales and that I like to tweak my tales a bit too, to straddle the borderline between reality and the imagination, in one way or the other. This “Blog Tale series” is not just an ordinary story series; it’s a very different kind of series widening the boundaries of the tale.

If tales are considered unreal, it’s because they have never happened, yet. Borders that separate real from unreal can sometimes be very thin and weak—witha slight push, as this series provides, you can experience a new kind of Science Fiction, a knowledge you have never heard of before. It has once been said that silliness under the right circumstances can excel any intelligence by far. About that this tale will tell.

This series is about a group of people that our society has dumped, because, for whatever reason, they just don’t fit in. As in a fairytale, the right circumstance occurs that makes something start to happen.

Regarded as less than adequate, stupid, or crippled, this group has been abandoned by society to a non-existent life. Nobody cares about them, so they are left to manage on their own, and this time they really do.

They see and understand things differently than we ordinary, normal people do, and they have a fascination in magic and old tales. But don’t let that fool you; through their magical world they have found ways to make illusions become real.

In their Skyjland they have a master who embodies ultimate power. They have their own land and administration that supports and governs where society has failed.

- Mr. Zed and his team of magicians and elves make them space where they can exist.

- Ms. Matey with her army of genies and trolls protects them as people with rights.

- Ms. Nodi and her staff of Nitwits and Slyboots run their business and fund their living.

- Mr. Green and his law-enforcement gang of Rednecks and Aunts practice their law.

So, what do they do…? You will never guess.

…

First Encounter

It was late spring in the city, with warm, clear weather. But there was this car driving down the street that just shouldn’t be there. Not on this street, and not in this area. It was 2009, in a large city in the U.S., and people were looking. This part of town was considered no good and was dilapidated. This car, however, came from somewhere else, and it bragged of luxury and importance. The man driving a car like this must be really rich. It was purple with shiny chrome, and the way it crept like a snail made it stand out even more. What was it doing?

This car looked like presidential in style, but its color was totally out of order. What kind of car is that, looking like that, you may ask…? There you go; it’s a pimp car, and by the look of it, not just any kind of pimp, okay. It was growing a tail of local neighborhood junk cars piling up from behind, but nobody dared to pass. That was the kind of car this was.

However, the driver didn’t match—as either its owner or the chauffeur—and that added to people’s curiosity. He was driving on a small street a few blocks parallel from the main street, and you just don’t drive a car like this there if you’re not lost. But the driver wasn’t acting lost. At the end of this long street the car turned right towards the main street, but just to cross it, and then it turned left again to continue on another parallel street, looking the same as the previous one with people staring as it passed.

After a few more blocks the car stopped outside an open space with a main gate. There was a seven-foot-high, wire fence surrounding the area, and the time was 9:15 am. Many young people were outside on the sidewalks and inside behind the fence. Behind them was an old school building, as worn down as most of its neighbors.

Even though many cars were parked all along the street, there was an opening next to the gate where this stared-at car slowly turned in and parked, backing in and out a couple of times to all the spectators’ amusement, but they didn’t laugh. These students didn’t know what to think, so they didn’t get close; they kept a respectful distance as the car door opened and the driver stepped out, a male kind-of figure in his forties.

He seemed fairly thin, of medium height, and with bright orange, well-combed hair that definitely looked fake. He had a thin nose sticking out a bit too far from a small head propped on a long, thin neck. He was dressed stylishly in a dark-grey suit that didn’t fit well, and there was this stupid tie. It looked as if he had chosen it only because it was the same color as his hair, bright orange, totally mismatching his suit. The man stepping out of the car looked like a joke, and he drew more attention than the car.

Kids from both sides of the fence gathered curiously, getting nearer and nearer, but that didn’t bother the man; he carried on like nobody was watching. After closing the car door behind him (leaving the keys in the ignition, as some students noticed), he walked to the back of the car and, with a mysterious move, he opened the trunk. He removed a big, white, paper bag, with “Johny’s Hats” spelled wrong and stamped in red letters all over it. Everyone could see that there was something big and round inside the bag, but they couldn’t see what it was.

If this silly-looking man had arrived in a normal car, he would have been bullied and ridiculed by the increasing spectators gathered there. But everything about him was too peculiar, so they all stood back expectantly, waiting for his next move.

This man expressed no nervousness, and happily he closed the trunk with a gentle slam, stepped up on the sidewalk, and proceeded through the gate carrying his paper bag. He didn’t show any sign of wanting to lock his car. Instead he looked around, and with the paper bag in his right hand he aimed for the school’s main entrance.

What on Earth was this? What could possibly be the mission of this very misplaced person at this school?

This particular school was known for its bad reputation. Crime was something people had learned to live with here. Many of the kids in this school came from criminal families, if they had families at all, or from gangs. If nothing or nobody stirred the pot, a disguised peace ruled the area. It was like a jigsaw puzzle where everyone had to know their place; if not they would be forced to remember it, or maybe killed in favor of somebody else.

“What about education?” Well, that was not the priority here. “Grades then?” No, not that either. At this school there were other priorities.

Leaving a car unlocked was something you just didn’t do here. But was no one watching to challenge that by stealing the car? No, no one was, no one near dared to do that. This man and his car were just too strange, and they all waited for someone else to make a move.

Shaggy, a young, muscular, gang member, was there at the sidewalk too among the others looking, and he let it all pass. If Shaggy and his boys let that car with its driver be, nobody else would dare to interfere. If Shaggy let that piece of property stay put, unlocked and all, as well as letting that silly man walk away without even a comment, then Shaggy owned him—if not now, he would later—such were the rules.

Apparently happily unaware, the orange-haired man proceeded untouched through the school’s main entrance, and again everyone had to guess: he knew the way to the principal’s office because he went straight there. As the school bell rang calling for yet another class session, almost all of the kids went inside to their classrooms, as if for once there was something happening in that school and they didn’t want to miss it. The orange-headed man had watched as he walked to the principal’s office and, after a short wait, was invited in.

“Hello, my name is Tobias Clark, and now I’m here,” said the orange-headed man when he entered the office, putting down his paper bag beside the door.

The principal was elderly, and after having doubtfully examined the man standing in front of his desk for a few seconds, he stood up and reached out his hand. After shaking the strangers’ hand he shook his own head and asked him to sit down in the chair in front of his desk. The orange-headed man sat as if there was nothing to it, and the principal sat in his chair behind the desk, too.

The strange man spoke again. “I’m looking for a young assistant to take part in my magic show this summer, and if one of your students is interested and does a good job, I will employ him.”

“Why here?” the principal asked.

“This looks like a nice school to me, and I’d be surprised if there’s not someone here who wants to join my team.”

“Why a ‘he’?”

“He can be whatever he likes by me, I don’t mind,” the man answered with a smile.

The principal didn’t bother to comment; in fact he didn’t bother for much of anything. He wasn’t aware of anyone coming to visit, he didn’t have time to argue, and he thought, “What the hell.” Whatever got rid of this stupid-looking man of the fastest.

“I can promise you that he will be well taken care of and accordingly paid,” the man continued.

“What do I care,” was the first thought popping into the principal’s head, but he didn’t say it. “And?” he did say, looking skeptical.

“I would just like to attend a class—is that okay?”

To the principal this talk appeared sillier and sillier, and he shook his head once more, but he couldn’t help smiling a bit.

“Why on Earth do you want to do that? What could you possibly expect?”

“I expect to find myself a magical assistant.”

This naivety made the principal suspicious, but instead of throwing him out as an imbecile, he thought he’d teach him a lesson.

“Okay, you can go to classroom #2 on the third floor. And I take it you know the way?” the principal said with a cunning smile.

“Yes, of course, I’ll find my way, no problem. Thank you,” the orange-headed man replied, now even happier than before.

He stood up, bent over the principal’s desk, and shook him by the hand while the principal remained sitting. He turned to the door, grabbed his paper bag and as suddenly and unexpectedly as he had arrived, and he left the principal’s office.

“Knock! Knock!”

For a moment there was no sound from behind the door.

“Knock! Knock! Knock!”

Feet were heard coming closer, and the door was opened from behind.

“Yes?”

“Hello, I’m Tobias Clark, and I have come to visit,” was all the orange-headed man said, as a young, black woman, obviously the teacher, opened the door and stared up at him.

She hadn’t seen this orange-haired man before, but she had overheard her students talking about him.  As if by coincidence the principal had chosen the worst class of the school, and as if by coincidence this was Shaggy and his gang’s territory, and as if by coincidence all the others were waiting.

“Thank you!” Tobias said, and he stepped inside the classroom before being invited.

…

To be continued on Friday.