I must have fallen asleep again, for when I opened my eyes Mr. Carroll was gone. I stretched and heard my joints complain. I had no idea how long I’d been asleep.
I stood, looked around, and called, “Hello.”
No response but a muffled echo.
“Is anyone out there?” I said, raising my voice.
If I wanted to meet someone new in my quest for knowledge in this subterranean warren I must venture on. It still amazed me while I trudged underground in this maze of tunnels a dim light glowed, but I couldn’t find it’s source. Something for the scientists to puzzle over. On the surface in the real world, they’d get a government grant and spend gobs of money to discover what I already knew. Couldn’t be figured out.
Ahead a few yards I saw what could be another branch of tunnel or an alcove, which might reveal another soul. I quickened my pace. As I neared I saw a writing desk, then a man sitting hunched over a piece of paper with pen in hand which he frequently dipped into an ink bottle.
“Pardon me, sir. Are you a writer?”
He looked up with penetrating eyes. “Who wishes to know?”
I introduced myself and said, “I’m using my time here to learn from other writers.”
“Ah. Good enough. I’m Charles Dickens. I’m please to make your acquaintance, Mr. White. And what would you like to know?”
“How do you get your ideas? How do they grow in your mind?”
He smiled. “An idea, like a ghost, must be spoken to a little before it will explain itself.”
Until next time, that’s it from The Storyman ….