CHAPTER 1
“Are you looking for someone Mr Spielberg?” A lanky slim man asked, carrying few books in his hands.
Charles Spielberg shrugged his shoulder, and took out a paper giving it to the man. “I am here to meet someone--an old looking man,” he said.
The lanky man constrained into a belly laugh, taking the paper from Charles with his free hand. “I will call him right away.” He walked away, and entered into the castle.
Charles heaved a sigh, his hands into his pocket, and roamed around the palace filled with lilacs. It was a large palace, and the garden looked like paradise, for the flowering trees were vibrant.
About few minutes of waiting, an old chiseled man came out of the castle doors. He strolled towards Charles smiling. He stretched out his contorted hand for a handshake. “It is so good to see you Charleston Jones. I doubted to believe that you will accept my invitation.”
“I wanted to see who my mother was talking about. She described you as an old man with fine looks, and indeed you are.”
They shook hands laughingly.
“Why have you invited me here Mr...”
“You can call me Mr Lovetto. I'd like you to come with me at once, and we shall talk about something that means a lot to me.” Mr Lovetto sauntered ahead, with his hands clasped behind him.
Bringing strikes, Charles stood his ground as his gaze fell upon a girl dressed in a sleeveless white dress, swaying her long wavy rainbow hair but what seemed to appear was mostly the red color.
It was the girl with red hair, he said to himself in awe.
It's her again!
“Who is that?” He asked breathlessly, his heart thudding against his chest as he felt a gravitational force pulling him towards the mysterious girl.
Mr Lovetto stood beside him with a genuine smile. “Well, isn't she just beautiful?”
“She's indeed beautiful...”
As the girl span to face both men, Charles was interrupted by someone touching him twice on the shoulder.
“Mr Spielberg, wake up.”
A hand tapped him lightly on the shoulder.
“Mr Spielberg. Hello there...”
He gradually fluttered his eyes open, coming face-to-face with a blonde head 30-years-old woman, dressed in a black and white maiden dress.
He groaned in annoyance. Being disturbed from his dreams was one thing he hated.
He got up to sit straighter on the bed, his eyes still heavy from sleep.
“I've been waking you up for the past ten minutes, Mr Spielberg,” Constance whined. "I almost thought you were dead."
“My apology, Constance, I was captured by a dream,” he replied yawning.
“Is it about the same girl again?” She asked, raising her brows. She knew about Charles dreaming about the redhead girl, because he had never stopped telling her about it.
A dazzling smile passed across his kissable lips. “You got it right, but I couldn't see her face as usual.” He frowned a little, and he immediately replaced with his trademark smile. “What do you want?”
“Breakfast will be served in fifteen minutes. Your parents and Mr Hensworth will be waiting for you at the table.”
Charles sighed in exasperation; his friend's father was joining them
for breakfast, boring, he thought.“They summoned me to tell you not to take time in the shower,” Constance stated, and exited his room.
Charles lazily got up from his bed. It was a weird dream but nice. But who the heck was that old man? He asked himself, shaking his head in exasperation.
The girl with red hair has been appearing in his dreams. He has never had a chance to see her face. Every time he woke up from the dream, he would feel her presence in his room. It was a strange feeling but a good feeling too.
He decided to take a shower because it helped his thoughts flow. He pressed a button, and the shower glass door slid open. He stepped into the shower, and turned the dial. His body tingled as the cold water cascaded down his body. He closed his eyes at the sound of the water plopping down on the ceramic floor. He can't take the picture of the redhead girl out of his mind.
Who was she? He sighed, the placation was clear in his tone.
After twelve minutes of taking a shower, he grabbed a white towel, and wore it around his waist and walked out of the bathroom.
"Breakfast is ready, son. What are you still doing up there?"
He rolled his eyes as he heard his mother's high pitched voice in the intercom. Wearing a black t-shirt and black jeans, styling his dark coffee hair, he headed to the breakfast room.
* * *
"There you are," Mrs Mariana Spielberg uttered in an elated tone as soon as Charles had stepped his foot into the breakfast room.
He greeted his parents and Mr. Hensworth a good morning, grabbing a chair and took his seat.
"What took you so long?" Mrs Spielberg asked.
Charles looked at his father and then at Mr Hensworth before replying, "I was freshening up."
Alabaster Hensworth chuckled at his response. Charleston expected that from him.
"Freshening up?" Mr Donne Spielberg asked with narrowed brows.
"I over slept," he said in irritation, taking a bite from a waffle. "I guess the dream took over."
Mrs Spielberg groaned. "My son finally had a dream. What's the dream you had all about?” she asked, biting on her cottage bread.
Charles groaned irritably as his father and Mr Hensworth fixed their eyes on him attentively.
“Do we have to do this now, Mom?” He asked in irritation.
“Come on son, we would like to know what you dreamt about. It's not a big deal. Perhaps Mr Hensworth will interpret a meaning to it.”
“Spill it out Charles, we're all ears,” Mr Hensworth said in amusement.
“Okay fine.” He exhaled, “But I only remember seeing a girl, and an old looking man whom he called himself Mr Lovetto.”
“Mr Lovetto?” Mr Spielberg asked, his brows creased in curiosity.
“Yes, perhaps you have an idea of whom it might be because he looked exactly like Mr Montero, but what was the girl with red hair doing at his palace?”
“It's a meaningless dream. Mr Montero has no daughter, and he stays in no palace,” Mrs Spielberg stated.
Charles shrugged his shoulder. He dares not tell them that the red-headed girl has been appearing in his dreams for the past few months.
“Is there something else you need to tell us about the dream? You know I can't interpret a real meaning to it if you don't remember most part of it,” Mr Hensworth uttered.
Alabaster Hensworth wasn't just the governor of Iceland, but deep down he knew he had a calling to become a clairvoyant someow. At least that's what he believed, even if it had to do with his intuitive virtue.
“I am sure that's all.”
“But I have a slight feeling you're not telling us everything.”
“Well, your feelings are at fault Mr Hensworth.”
“What was the girl with red hair doing in your dream? Did she says something to you?” Mrs Spielberg asked curiously. “She must have said something to you. Every dream has a meaning behind it.”
Charles blinked his eyes, and sighed. “The girl has been appearing in my dreams recently without saying words. She is silent. She just smiles at me without having to see her whole face, and the odd thing is that I feel her whenever I wake up. I feel her presence.”
Silence filled the breakfast room. Charles flickered his eyes from his mother, to his father and then to Mr Hensworth. He rubbed his hands and hunched his shoulder. “And I have a sensation that she might be a lucid, or she's trying to tell me something, without words.”
“It doesn't make sense to me!” Mrs Spielberg shook her head in denial.
“That's totally out of right senses, son. It is impossible to dream of someone and then feel their presence,” Mr Spielberg added in disbelief.
“Maybe she just exists in your dreams, Charles.” Mr Hensworth re-joined. “And if you feel her presence, it means the girl might be a ghost.”
Charles widened his eyes in horror, taken aback by Alabaster's interpretation. “I--I don't believe in ghosts,” he said, taking a sip from his cup of coffee.
"Then, you must believe now," Mr. Hensworth replied, "because the girl you've been seeing is a ghost!"
Charles planted the cup on the table, and drew his lowerlip between his teeth. "I don't believe she's a ghost," he said uncertainly.
"Charles, feeling someone's presence and you can't see them, that's a definition of a ghost," Mrs. Spielberg added. "Don't think too much of it."
He pressed his lips together, standing up from his chair. “Excuse me, I will be late for class.”
As he was about to quit the room, his father stopped him.
“I'll need you at the Elites castle later, son.”
He sighed. “Not today, Dad.” He strolled out of the breakfast room without looking back.
Mr Hensworth chuckled. “I don't think your son wants to be the next president of the Elites organisation. Don't you want to reconsider that, Donne?”
Mr Spielberg relaxed his jaw. "He is the only son have, and I know he will take over the Elites organisation very soon."
Blinking her eyelids, her sight came clearer and clearer until she met the cracks in a spiderweb patterns hanging in the ceiling with missing shingles. The girl groaned. "No, no!" She cried, her face screwed up as of she wanted to cry. "No!" She kicked her legs aimlessly in the air. "I made it clear to you to wake up before 'leven," a male voice resounded. "Because you tend to have imaginative thoughts at sunrise." Sheila got up straighter from the tattered bed, her face contorted in frustration. Her ginger medium hair disheveled and shadowing her shaggy ginger brows. Crossing her arms over her chest, she tugged her hair away from her face. "I dreamt of a certain servant 'bout to give me a crown," Sheila said. Michael Lovatta rais
"I don't think we'll be permitted in 'er library again," Sheila said, as they were on a walk to the main street. "Then I'll be in search of another library, or we can try the library at the campus." "Ye want to get me into trouble, I see." Louisa laughed. As they strolled down the busied sideways, billboards and city screens were standing over six stories tall, attracting the attention of the pedestrians approaching. Sheila was smitten by a good-looking man displayed on one of the billboards. The man on the displaywasdressed in a black tuxedo,his dark coffee hair styledin a pompadour fade, and his kissablelips curled up into a rich smile. "Who's tha
Blazing sun shone through the Blue Castle College building, no clouds but a clear blue sky. Charles was staring in front of the chalk board. When he heard an audible whispering his ears, he whipped his head towards an open window of the class. White and blue butterflies fleeted into the air, and standing a mile away from the window was a girl in a white robe. Charles narrowed his eyes, when he blinked, the girl disappeared and he found himself staring at a girl in class, her name was Yolanda. Thinking Charles was staring at her the whole time, she smiled, her cheeks turning into shades of red from blushing. Realising this, Charles turned his focus back to the chalkboard. Did he have a dream of the redhead girl with open eyes? How was that even possible? He chuckled to himself.
“Should I leaveyou here, sir?” asked asherolledtoastopbythe Holypark.“Yes, it's here.”“Isit nota bitcrowded?”“Don'tworryaboutthat, I'll manage.” Charlessighed.Halesbert climbedout ofthecar,and opened thecar door for Charles.Charlestonhoppedout, wearinghis brownparka,andpullinghis hoodie over his tousled dark coffeehair.Thesensationof awindyairhitting on his face calme
The next hour of that early evening, Sheila strolled from Northforth to Greenfalls, heading to Kateworm library. She wore a plain wear and tear sweater dress, with thigh-high socks, and black ballet flats. She's wearing a brown newsboy hat over her ginger hair.Last night, she couldn't sleep, her mind was filled with thoughts about the book. She has to get that book today or never, she told herself. Looking at the cream sky, she knew it was getting late. She quickened her pace, the library was closing at half five.After what seemed five minutes of trolling, she saw three young girls coming out of the library laughing loud, as they grasped onto borrowed books. As soon as they left her sight, she pushed open the heavy wooden door. Ms Kate was placing books back into their respected shelves. Sheila took a glance at Ms Kate's black chocola
Sheila entered into the quiet cabin, darkness enveloped the room making it hard for her to spot out the lantern on the wooden table. She blindly strolled towards the window for a Dietz lantern. As soon as she got in touch with it, she put on the light, concealing the dark.She inhaled heavily. Her brother's presence is unseen, his black coat isn't on the hook.Perchance he went for hunting,she thought. However, her brother's hunting tools were in the room. So he might have gone somewhere and not in the forest."Ah! Perhaps he left to seek for me," she thought, after a second she stripped of her own forethought.She ambled towards a small cabinet, and pulled it open. She yanked out a long wearisome sigh. There was no food in the drawer, which means she might stay hun
Sheila sat on a green bench of the Holypark, eating her snacks. Her brother's view of the city bothered her, but she didn't let his opinion ruin her love for the city. It was Monday morning and it was rare to see anyone walking by the park, because most elites went to work to be more rich, and elites went to school to be more educated on being more rich. While dregs can't afford to go to school, or get employed, they become beggars by day and by night, or to some like Sheila, who wanders around the city, goes looking for what to take from the elites. Roaming her eyes, Sheila spotted an hawker across the streets seated at the corners selling newspapers on a fixed newstand to passersby. She cracked into a smile, and stood to her feet, throwing her plastic chips into the bin next to her. She adjusted her blue dress and hair. As she
Sheila sat on the bed with crossed legs, staring at the newsprint laying beside her. Her lips curved into a wide grin. "How can a man be this beautiful?" She giggled, tracing her fingers over the Charles's face on the newsprint. She reached out for a scissor, and deftly cut off his face, leaving Mr. Montero and Mr. Spielberg's. Taking up the piece of Charles face, she beamed holding it to her chest.The wooden door flew open and Michael stepped in. Sheila stagged the picture behind her back instantly.Michael planted his old traveling bag on the floor, sighing. His neck-length hair was disheveled and uncombed, sweat beaded his forehead, a shred of his grey shirt was ripped off. He looked as if he came from a clash. He turned to face his sister, his eyes tuning in different emotions of breaking down, or of glittering sadness.