OPENING

PERIWINKLE

The creak of a chair. The flip of a page. Furious scribbling a-whirring.

The growl of the famished demon bellowing in her stomach.

She had the head of a pixie, with angular features, nearly pointed ears, and fathomless eyes—like raw almonds in shape and cocoa in color. Fire exploded on her rounded cranium, vivid shades of orange and gold teased like a heart around her pointed face. Her long, thin limbs were uncomfortable in the confines of her desk, the plastic seat clinging to her flesh with a feverish, sweaty grip. Vibrant crayons painted a kaleidoscope across the neat, naked pages of a coloring book cracked open over forgotten texts and analysis questions.

“Miss Marmaduke, if you would step outside with me, please,” said the intruding head of a tiny, stout woman hidden behind a mousy bun and dinner-plate spectacles. At the sound of her name, the Periwinkle snapped in her hand.

Oh dear god, not the Periwinkle.

Anything but the Periwinkle.

“Miss Marmaduke?” On unsteady feet, the visibly shaken, suddenly ashen-faced girl stood and turned. A look of displeasure crossed the woman’s face, the sight of yards and yards of exposed smooth, ageless flesh causing her turtleneck to tighten around the folds of her neck. “Leave your things.”

In the hallway, Marmaduke towered over the disapproving, but pleasant face of the secretary. Sharp, angled eyes looked down an acute nose at a hairline of graying hairs as the woman flipped through the various papers, notes and detention slips attached to her clip board before pulling out a letter addressed to the parents/guardians of Clementine Marmaduke. With a polite nod, Marmaduke accepted the letter. With a foot and a half back in the classroom, Marmaduke heard the scatterbrained secretary let out a noise of astonishment.

“These are for you too, dear.” A neat little bundle of detention slips was placed in Marmaduke’s outstretched hand, and with head hanging low, the lanky girl said a quiet, insincere ‘thanks.’ With a pleasant, oblivious smile, the elderly lass scurried down the hallway on thick cankles, sending up a furor in the deserted, littered passage.

It wasn’t a full three and a half moments later when the final bell of the day rang. She walked into an overcast afternoon, tricky winds tearing dead leaves and discarded detention slips up into the sky.

- - -

At home, Marmaduke sat at the kitchen table, staring at the box of crayons that never left her side. Before it laid the broken Periwinkle.

“What are you doing?” Marmaduke looked up into the face of her mother, standing in the doorway with a paper grocery sack in her arm. Her mother and her were similar in appearance, both possessing the same face and eyes. Her mother had short, curly black hair, however, and was modest beyond belief.

“My crayon broke,” Marmaduke said solemnly.

“I’m sorry,” her mother said, even though she wasn’t. “Help put the groceries away,”

“You don’t understand,” Marmaduke said, despair in her voice. “My crayon broke,”

“Don’t color so hard next time,” her mother said, her tone vaguely annoyed by her teenage child’s childish behavior.

“I can’t use it ever again... It’s broken,” Marmaduke mumbled, her eyes distant and glassy. “I never got to use it,”

“Just buy a new pack at the super market tomorrow after school. Now, put these groceries away or I won’t feed you dinner.” Mrs. Marmaduke was cross, and Marmaduke was hungry, so she put aside her mourning and helped with the groceries, a bitter look on her face.

“You can’t just buy these at a super market,” she muttered, sticking the Fruity Pebbles in the cereal cabinet.

After dinner, Marmaduke retreated to her room, taking her crayons with her. She collapsed on her bed with a defeated sigh, setting the Periwinkle on the pillow next to her.

“Cray, what am I going to do?” she wondered aloud. “I’ve never broken one before,”

“Your mother was right, you moron,” her crayon box replied, suddenly morphing from an ordinary box of crayons labeled “crayóla” into a talking box of wax sticks, complete with animated mouth flap and a singular eye situated in the “ó.” “You shouldn’t color so hard,”

“B-B-But—“ Marmaduke stuttered, her mouth becoming a small, pouting upside-down D [D:]. “Why do you always have to take her side?”

“Why did you have to break Periwinkle? How am I ever going to break it to his wife you snapped him in half?” Cray complained, his accent-eyebrow furrowing in agitation.

“Can’t we patch him up some how?” Marmaduke speculated, and Cray let out a sigh.

“Well, we’re going to have to try, aren’t we?” He let out another sigh upon seeing her face light up. “Just go get the scotch tape,”

- - -

Marmaduke Clementine, 16, is your average cybergoth/raver-influenced high schooler. She excels in gym class and in art, and fails at pretty much everything else. She is the subject of the gory, inhumane degree of ostracization only known to high-school halls, and is considered dangerous when provoked. She is known just as well for her violent, fiery temper as for her solace found in the pages of coloring books.

Even before she discovered a box of talking crayons, she loved color and coloring. Even before she traded her long, straight black hair and glasses for a halo of bright orange chaos and contacts, she was always spied with her nose in a coloring book. Even before she traded her modest, past-the-knee dresses and stocking for showing as much skin as possible without being obscene, she was known to turn in illegible assignments wrote only in wax crayon. Pencils, she claimed, were too dull for her flamboyant personality. Most people who knew her as Clementine, however, thought this was laughable; dull, they insisted, was this shy, socially awkward girl’s middle name.

Finding that box of talking crayons changed everything.

“Look, Cray! He’s better than ever!” Marmaduke said with a big, cheesy grin as she held up a not nearly as good Periwinkle. He was, frankly put, the same old broken Periwinkle crudely held together with poorly applied tape. By the flat, expressionless look on Cray’s accent-eyebrow, it was easy to see he was not impressed.

“Just put him back in the box and go to sleep,” He said, clearly frustrated with Marmaduke’s (well-meaning) attempts. Frowning, Marmaduke did as she was told; she opened Cray’s mouth and carefully slipped Periwinkle inside, and then trod off over to her closet to change into something a bit less plastic to sleep in. Still frowning and flashing her almond puppy-dog eyes in Cray’s direction, she crawled under the blanket and wiggled until her bright orange head was sticking out, all the while giving Cray the look.

“I’m not falling for the look!” Cray exclaimed, even though his accent mark eyebrow was beginning to quiver, which as anyone can cite, is the first symptom of giving in.

“B-B-But—” Marmaduke whined, almond eyes almost rounding in her innocence “It’s only seven-thirty,”

“I don’t care!” Cray shouted, scrunching his eye up tight, which as anyone can cite, is the second symptom of giving in.

“On a Friday!” Marmaduke moaned, wiggling like a caterpillar in her bedspread cocoon.

“You’re being punished!” Cray shrieked, clinging to the last of his resolve like a rope suspending him over shark-infested waters, which as anyone can cite, is the third symptom of giving in.

“But… Gilligan’s Island is on...” Marmaduke said, the slightest traces of a maniacal, evil grin on her face. That, as the old phrase goes, was the straw that broke the camel’s back; Gilligan’s Island was, by far, Cray’s favorite show.

“Oh, fine,” Cray said dejectedly, trying to hide his excitement behind a scowl. “You can stay up,”

“I love you, Cray.” Marmaduke cooed, crawling out from under the covers, her mouth a near-perfect imitation of a three [:3].

“Oh, shuddup,” Cray mumbled. “And give me the remote.”

Commentary:

Hi! This is a story I've been throwing around for a while. It basically is the story of a vaguely antihero superhero who uses a box of crayola crayons as weapons, and balances love, life and squashing baddies. I don't know exactly what I'm going to do with it yet, but its good practice nonetheless. The title is sort of weird; Super Happy is actually a crayon color that came out last year, so it actually does have a slight purpose. XP Tell me what you think? Should I continue? -Skylar Alexander