So I figured this is a good way to start off my return to the Creativity Corner and site. Some of you know I was in Disneyland and I took my notebook. The following is 100% factual. Enjoy. The Disneyland Friend The foot polished decking glistened in the setting sun as the Mark Twain gently rocked, waves from the Rivers of America hugging the aged vessel. The Mark Twain had never once sailed the majesty of the great Mississippi, but she never once complained; content to stretch her legs in the calm waters surrounding Tom Sawyer’s Island. The Island itself was rife with lore all it’s own, stretching from Injun Joe to the lost treasure of the nefarious Davy Jones. It seemed that no matter what the day, children raced across the island, dragging parents in tow in search of an illusive pirate lord. The opposing bank however, refused to be neglect. It buzzed to a different tune and energy. Flocks of families, school groups and everyone in between laughed and enjoyed themselves as they passed the sleepy western township setting. Adorning the banks, stood the ornate New Orlean’s Square and wild jungles clinging to the edges of adventure. Park benches slowly began to fill as cast members busied themselves roping off sections of the waterfront in preparations for the evenings nightly spectacular. An elderly couple sits contently watching the crowd pass, sharing a small container of popcorn. The older man wears a simple baseball cap; lines of sweat across the bill mark the dedicated servitude, while his face remains emotionless, crinkled like a discarded map. His wife sits quietly, her eyes wide with renewed energy as a pair of siblings cling to each other’s hand dressed like princesses of Disney lore. A flock of mallards crises-cross the River, occasionally diving beneath the glassy water in pursuit of a morsel of dinner. Groups of school children move as a herd from ride to ride. Pairs of tens jockey through the crowd racing to make a distant ride or to meet friends I cannot honestly say. Nationalities blend together amongst the flow and ebb of the cultural sea. Few harbor thoughts of skin or political strife; in this realm, only children are allowed entrance. With two mighty yawns, the Mark Twain awakens, and begins to ferry passengers on a tour of memories past. I can envision the path. The ancient Mansion resting high atop the hill surrounded by the wrought-iron prison bars refusing escape for 999 ghosts. The path would bend turning focus toward a cartoonish mountain commandeered by a raging waterfall depositing guests to their Laughing Place. The river would curve past the dock harboring the Columbia and canoes asleep till the next days shift. Your focus would then be directed west toward a sleepy cottage hidden away on the edges of the Mississippi, but to the east, therein lies the memorial. To those who take the time to look, you will see a pair of rusted, dying steel snakes slowly vanishing under the imprisonment of nature and evolution. A rusting two-tendered WRR train rests tossed aside, a subtle tribute of the Rainbow Cavern’s Mine Train now consumed by the near peaks of Bryce Canyon and the Big Thunder community. A small child notices, asking his parent about the discarded train. The parent smiles, telling the boy that it was a runaway train used to enhance the mood of Big Thunder. I blanch. The parents are young, no doubt having never noticed the burrowed tunnel ten feet away as anything more than an arch instead of a ride of Disney’s storied past. The great riverboat slows, reaching port as people crowd around the exit, more interested in departing to head to a thrill ride. It saddens me, as I remain leaning against the portsides steam stack watching the sun slip slowly behind Splash Mountain, the last edges of light crest the summit of the Matterhorn in the distance. I begin to reflect on the— My phone begins to chime, tearing me from the momentary calm that warms me while I write. I am now no longer aboard the vessel, but sitting on the park bench shaded just west of Big Thunder. A family of four are situated at the bench just north of me arguing about where to eat while the teenage girl remains silent, texting friends, no doubt bored. “What’s up Kevin.†“Dude, it’s 7:45, Em and I want to treat you to dinner at the Plaza as a thank you for all the help you’ve been this trip man.†My eyes flutter to the aqua Fossil watch ticking away at my wrist. “I didn’t know it was 7:45 all ready sorry man. I’m on the way.†He pauses, I can hear the tell tell music of the Teacups serenading the background. “If you want, we can catch up later if you are busy…†I smile. “It’s ok dude, I’ve just been doing a bit of writing.†“I don’t want to drag you out of your trance or anything, we can always meet up later.†I stare at the unfinished page adorned with notes and scrawled illegible handwriting. “I’ll be there in twenty.†I state, hanging up. My focus returns to the page, the empty lines begging to be filled. My head shakes as my writing trance has been swept away. I prepare to head towards Main Street but stop, as a young boy has now joined me on the bench, his feet swing lazily as he watches my notebook. I recognize the boy; he was with the arguing family who are now yelling into a colorful map of the park. “Hi there.†The boy says nothing; his hands cling to the underside of the bench, anchoring him down. His hair was dark auburn; a smattering of freckles stitched a meadow around his nose. He wore a dark blue Buzz Lightyear shirt with matching shoes. “You better stick with your parents, they’ll be worried if they lose you.†“Are you a writer?†“I’d like to be.†The boy stared silently at the words on the page, trying to decipher them. “What are you writing?†“It’s just a little description and observational piece on Disneyland.†The boy’s complexion wrinkled. His eyes finally leaving the page a question brewing in his young head. “But you’re in Disneyland. You are supposed to be having fun. I hate writing. My teachers always make me write stories. They aren’t fun.†A momentary silence descends between us. My brain begins to try and determine if I should tell the kid off or follow the twisting rabbit hole. “Well, to me writing is a way of creating fun. That’s why I like to write. I don’t write to please anyone but myself and if people enjoy it then it is an added perk.†The boy let the words digest before he took a hesitant glance back towards his parents. They had not moved a muscle or notice the boy was gone. He sighed. “I wish I could have fun writing like you.†I smile. “This is Disneyland. Everyone is a kid when they come here, even me. Do you like Disneyland?†He nods excitedly. “Then when you get back to school and your teacher asks you to write about your summer, write about Disneyland, write about all the fun you had.†“Liam McAllister,†A voice roars whipping the boy and my heads around. His mother is livid; I can envision steam and heat boiling up inside of her. “You leave that man alone and get over here.†His demeanor droops, realizing the momentary sanctuary had dissolved. He hops down as something inside is tearing at me, seeing a bit of myself in him. I want to chew out the mother, but hold my tongue. “He’s fine, he was just asking me if I knew of any good restaurants around here.†The mother’s attitude changes instantly. “Oh, thank you. That would be great actually, this map isn’t being that much of a help.†“There’s a good pizza place over in Tommorrowland, a great Cajun place behind Pirates, and some good burgers over by Splash Mountain.†“Oh…hmm…we didn’t know about those…pizza you say…†she turns around, I’m not sure if she is even contemplating my suggestions or the fact that she doesn’t care. The boy looks at me and I see a smile materialize, ivory broken by a missing tooth. I wink making him giggle. My phone begins to chime again; I realize that it’s 8:00. “Gotta go kiddo, the ball and chain call. Enjoy yourself while you’re here and remember to be a kid.†I stand and head toward the path leading to Main Street but am stopped by his hand tugging at my notebook. I turn and see his parents racing after him, yelling something. He pulls on the notebook, one hand covering the side his mouth. I kneel down. “I’m going to write about my Disneyland friend when I get back.†He smiles, and races back to his parents, leaving me alone, humble. I enter the gates of Plaza Inn slowly, my hand hurrying across the page as the memories sit perched on my shoulders whispering thoughts and images. “Where the hell have you been?†Kevin moans, his arms wrapped around Em, “We’ve been waiting thirty minutes.†“I got caught up helping a kid, sorry man.†I begin to head inside but notice the sign hanging beneath the handle. Closed. “I hope it was worth it dude, now we’ve got to find somewhere else to eat.†I smile to myself as I turn, heading for Tommorrowland. “I know of a good pizza place.â€
Darn. This is too good. You seem to be out of any writer's block,while I'm just a blockhead at the moment. I can't begin to express how beautifully written this piece was, it is certainly a treat to see something like this in the creativity corner. I'm glad you're back.
It's been a while since I've seen something new from you. I'm glad you do not disappoint. The fact that this as a true story makes it all the better since you set the scene very well and drew the reader into your reality. For the time I was reading I almost felt like I was there watching everything myself, no kidding. I don't really have much else to say because that was, in my opinion, the most impressive part of the piece.
