Another Start to Another Story

Call me Randy. Just don’t call me late for dinner. Especially when Mom makes that meat loaf that I like. Ready to hear some long drown out musings about my mis-adventures? Any way, either way, some months ago--never mind how long precisely--having no school and nothing particular to interest me in the house, I thought I would sail about a little and see the imaginary part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the irritation and regulating the circulation and avoiding bordom-ation. Whenever I find myself growing sadly grim and sour about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly and dark November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before math books and watching long English dramas on PBS; and especially whenever the hungry hungry hippos get such an super bite out of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately flushing myself down the toilet or darting recklessly out into the street in front of a big blue bus causing it to swerve to miss me, thus smashing into Joe Buckley’s hot dog stand , and methodically knocking people's hats off—then pelting them with snowballs, I account it high time to get to Narnia, Hogwarts, Oz or somewhere similar as soon as I can. This is my substitute for an automatic slingshot with lazar scope. With a philosophical flourish the Hobbit throws himself into adventure I quietly take to the Gump. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all kids in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the imaginary world with me.

I hopped off my bed and strode over to the wardrobe and opened it up. I pushed back the coats and stepped inside and proceeded to stride down the corridor until it stopped suddenly and I slide down