**Short Intro: This is file three (part three or chapter three-whatever you prefer) of my latest endeaver, JAZZ (if you're not up to date on what's happening with Jazz and her world-check the sidebar under Categories and Favorites where all of Jazz's files have been placed). Recently I've been writing, editing, and rewriting, all on Jazz that I have. I really don't want to jinx it by saying that it will be a novel-but I might as well say that. And I've finally found a use for my pitiful LJ. This will be the last file in Jazz's story. But if you read my LJ (link in the sidebar) you might be able to read some sneak peeks and my updates on how things are going...Anyway, enjoy-because this is the last time!**
Jazz didn’t know what had hit her. There was a terrible pounding in her head-as if she had voluntarily run into a brick wall.
But other than that-and a sense of disorientation-she seemed to be okay.
Of course-she had her eyes closed. So she didn’t actually know she was okay. For all she knew-she could open her eyes to find she was decapitated.
This thought, and a cinnamon-like smell made her eyes open instantly.
She was not decapitated.
Instead, Jazz found herself in a luxurious compartment (decorated in an early nineteen-hundreds style) in what seemed to be a fast, moving train.
She was lying down, taking up a whole, maroon, velveteen cushioned bench.
She quickly sat up, rubbing her aching forehead.
“Where am I?”
“About two hours from our destination.”
A distinct female voice said. Jazz rubbed her eyes open and looked in front of her.
A mug of something swirling and hot was pushed into her hands by a woman who had striking auburn hair and fair skin. The only thing strange about her was her eyes-their irises were a strange cloudy pink color.
She was the woman from The Porker. Except without the strange voice.
She was still wearing the fancy, ankle-length dress and fur wrap. The man with the high-pitched voice sat next to her. He was reading a thick newspaper entitled The News on Absolutely Everything.
Hmm. That was a strange title.
Jazz looked at the mug.
Is it Poisoned? She thought frantically.
She sniffed the steam. Its scent was strong cinnamon and, she took another whiff, chocolate.
It was hot cocoa over-filled with cinnamon.
She took a sip.
The cinnamon and whatever else was in there made her fully awaken. That’s when she remembered.
Wait, hold the phone-aren’t I supposed to be KIDNAPPED??? Locked in a room with no air conditioning, chained up to a post?
But she wasn’t. She was in a lavishly decorated train compartment drinking hot, fresh, cinnamon cocoa and laying on velvet cushions. It was a prison all the same. Only, Jazz didn’t focus on it that way for now.
Jazz looked uncertainly at her kidnappers.
What was wrong with their eyes? Why were they kidnapping her? And what was with the luxurious train compartment? Where were they taking her anyway?
All questions Jazz hoped to answer.
“What.....?” She was about to start in with the questions, but her throat rasped and gave out.
The man looked up from his newspaper.
“Don’t try to talk. Your voice won’t work for another full hour.”
His voice was perfectly normal for a twenty-something-year-old man.
This raised another question-what was wrong with their voices back at The Porker?
Why had they been so strange and uncharacteristic?
Jazz looked inquiringly at the auburn-haired woman. She mimed writing something down with a pen and paper.
The woman nodded, reached into an antique, black valise, and pulled out a notebook and pen.
“Careful,” the woman said before handing the pen to her, “That’s state-of-the-art. You can’t just buy one anywhere these days.”
Jazz looked at the pen-it didn’t look very special-it was just a plain old black ballpoint pen.
She held it to the pad of paper to begin her long stream of questions.
But something unexpected happened-the pen squirmed violently in her hands, desperate to be free of the prison that was Jazz’s hand.
It was almost human-like. It stood up on its ballpoint and tried to push away Jazz’s fingers.
“What? What the heck? How is the pen even doing that????” It wrote on the page.
The woman looked startled, as if she forgot something.
“How is this even possible?” The pen wrote, and-“Why is this pen writing down everything I’m thinking????”
The woman looked at the pad.
“It writes every thing that you’re thinking. Think about what you were going to ask-and it will write it down.”
“Right,” the pen wrote, “And I’m Santa Clause. I must be dreaming. Oh-wait she can see this. Great. Just great.”
“Believe me or not.” The woman said. “Just try it. And you’re not dreaming.”
Jazz reluctantly closed her eyes and focused on the questions.
She could hear the pen scratching and opened her eyes again.
On the paper was the long list of questions she’d been thinking about.
“Whoa, this is so cool....how can this pen even do this. Is it....” The pen was about to write “magic” when the man looked up from his newspaper, took the pen in one swift motion and clicked it shut.
“There’ll be time for questions later. Right now we debark.”
The auburn-haired woman sighed as the train came to a lurching stop.
“My name is Ballantina Loft. And this is my husband-Orald Loft.”
“Call me Stretch.” The man said in a congenial tone while standing up to get leather suitcases from the overhead cabinets. Jazz could see that his nickname was accurate. He was taller-maybe taller than the tallest basketball player on earth.
Ballantina opened the sliding door of the compartment.
“After you.” She said, motioning for Jazz to step out into the crowded train hallway before her.
Jazz took another sip from the still steaming mug and then set it down on the little table near the window. She stepped out into the chilled hallway before Ballantina and Stretch.
“Viktor Station. Next Stop-Halle Station. Three Hours.” The voice over the intercom stated.
The funny thing was that Jazz-even with her newly refreshed eyes-couldn’t see the intercom speakers anywhere.
“Come on.” Stretch said testily, and navigated their way through crowds of people.
Viktor station was large and crowded. But other than that, Jazz could see nothing. Stretch and Ballantina were going so fast through the crowd-and Stretch had a fierce grip on Jazz’s arm.
She should have done whatever it took to slip into the crowd and away from her kidnappers. But she admitted to herself that she was strangely fascinated with the couple.
They rushed her through until they were stopped instantly by some sort of barrier they couldn’t see.
A man at a small desk surrounded by Plexiglas and spoke through a tiny microphone. His voice had a nasal quality to it, and his pink eyes were watery.
“Welcome to Customs. You have an unidentified person with you. You’ll need to show me her Globovisa and her papers. Please put them on the materializer.”
“Oh. Yes. Her papers. Didn’t you put those in my suitcase, dear?” Ballantina said nervously to stretch.
Jazz couldn’t believe her ears. Materializer? Globovisa? What were those? And why did they have to go through CUSTOMS. Weren’t they still in the same country? How long had she been asleep on that train, anyway?
Stretch put a small packet of messy papers on the metal tray, where they instantly vanished and reappeared in the man’s hands.
WHOA, Jazz thought, how did it DO that?
**Ps. It would be greatly appreciated if you'd post your opinions in a comment**