The Misspellers

By Michael Martineck

“An original and entertaining novel”,Midwest Book Review.
Carlin and Jack agreed to water some plants for a neighbor while he was away. That's when they discovered that the house smelled of rotten cabbage, burnt onions and wet dogs, while inside there was no phone, no tv, and not even a single electric light. Still, that wasn't to be their biggest surprise -- not when they entered and discovered that science and magic don't mix! Michael J. Martineck's The Misspellers is an original and entertaining novel which is especially recommended for young readers ages 9 to 12.

"Within two pages, I was captivated" Aphelion Web-zine

The book is perfect for all intermediate readers, but especially successful with reluctant ones.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Martineck
• Release date: Jun 17, 2010
• ISBN: 9781458190956

Michael Martineck

I started writing stories when I was twelve. You’d think I’d be better at it by now. It’s not from lack of trying. Over the years, I’ve put out short stories, comic book scripts, articles and trio of novels. I’ve put countless other ventures in the drawer.The drawer is in my house on Grand Island, NY., a little cap of clay nestled between the US and Canada. This is also the location of my Ego Retention Program, whereby my beautiful wife and two lovely children continuously call out my various shortcomings, keeping me from becoming the screaming, self-centered artist I long to be.DC Comics published a couple of stories in the early 90s.Strange Horizons, Planetmag, Aphelion and a couple of other long-dead e-zines helped me out in 00s, along with The Misspellers and The Wrong Channel.September 1 – Cinco de Mayo, my first novel for adults, from EDGE Science Fiction and Fantasy.

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The Misspellers

by Michael J. Martineck

Published by Michael J. Martineck at Smashwords

Copyright 2002 by Michael J. Martineck

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or living persons or dead persons is coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is also available in print. ISBN 0-9720978-0-5

For Sarah, who said maybe you could be a writer.

Chapter 1

Mud Shower

As far as Jack Oliver was concerned, he had nothing. His parents were not wealthy, so each piece of clothing, his bike, everything in his life was a hand-me-down from his two older brothers. And nothing it made it past those two without a scar. None of Jack’s clothing fit exactly right, always too large. Jack’s blue bicycle made a crinkling sound as he rode, even though none of the parts should have been capable of that kind of noise.

Despite Jack’s having nothing of his own, he never complained. At least, not loudly. He had decided several months ago he would take matters into his own hands and provide for himself. He got a newspaper route and set out to be the best paperboy Strawberry Island had ever seen.

Strictly speaking, he found it impossible. He had the physical requirements. He was an energetic 13-year-old, with plenty of mental abilities. He was not an A student, but he knew he could be; he certainly knew enough to make change for a dollar. He also had the right attitude. He wanted to do a good job for all of his customers, regardless of yipping dogs or late payments or their general crabbiness.

Jack maintained that attitude everyday, until he got to Mr. Bough’s house. It was at this point, each afternoon, that Jack wanted to quit and stick with the holey pants, foggy shirts and strange-sounding bike.

Mr. Bough was close to being the world’s greatest customer. He was always home when Jack went to collect payment for the newspapers. He never made Jack stand outside in the freezing snow. He never phoned to complain, even when the paper was ridiculously late. Still, Jack tossed Mr. Bough’s paper all the way from the street, when everyone else had their paper gently dropped behind the screen door. More often than not, the Mr. Bough’s paper fluttered through the air and came apart or slid through mud or disappeared into a shrub. Everyday Jack felt bad about it, but he kept his distance from the house. He had to. The house smelled terrible.

Some days it reeked of burnt garlic and onions, mixed with rubber and that acid odor from the bottom of garbage cans in the park. Other days it was old broccoli and socks. Boiling cabbage was the least offensive scent. When Jack got a whiff of that, he dashed home for his collection book, praying the smell did not get worse while he was gone.

Odor was not the only thing that bothered Jack about the place. There was way too much plant life. The house was surrounded by huge oak trees with leaves so thick the sky was only an occasional sparkle. Ivy was everywhere, not just up the brick chimney like most people’s. Vines ran over the cracked driveway, across door frames, around railings and off into the back yard. There were hundreds of other plants and flowers that Jack never saw anywhere else. Grass blades as big as swords. Stalks with smiling green bumps for heads. Papery orange balloon blossoms that hung like Christmas tree lights.

The house itself was much like a bunch of others in the neighborhood. It was a plain, white, single story home with a cinder-colored roof and glossy black shutters on all the windows. Sometimes the shutters were closed. No else’s could do that. All the other shutters in the neighbor were strictly decorations. Stranger yet, the house had no porch light. As far as Jack could tell, the house had no lights at all. He would not normally go near the house at night, but last winter, that time of year when it is dark by dinner, Jack had to collect for two months worth of papers. Mr. Bough came to the door with an oil lantern that reminded Jack of trains and railroads. While Mr. Bough dug in his pocket, Jack stepped into the house. From what he could see, standing in the hall, the whole place was lit with candles. And it stank of bad spinach.

Today, Jack was in no hurry to get to Mr. Bough’s house. It was hot out, like everybody had left their oven doors open. On hot days, the Bough house would smell its worst.

The more Jack thought about it, the more he realized he was not in much of a hurry to do his whole route. He was already sweating and he was only on the third house. He could think of 130 other things more fun than riding a bike while trying to balance a 40-pound bag of newsprint.

Not to mention, that girl might be out again.

A new family had just moved into one of the big places on the river. The driveway was about a block long and curvy, so the previous owners had let him put the paper in a tube under the mailbox at the curb. The new owners had a daughter that stood waiting each day. Just standing and waiting. Didn’t she have anything better to do?

But before he got to the big houses, he had a decision to make. Jack coasted on his bike and listened hard for the angry, high-pitched gurgle of Dill Vernon’s dirt bike. The only thing worse than the smell of Mr. Bough’s house, was a spoiled brat with no sense of humor. Dill’s idea of joke was anything that might make Jack splatter his papers. So far this summer, anytime Jack tried to cut through the fields, Dill appeared on his yellow Kawasaki and made him wish he had taken the long way. Dill would cut in front of him really close, circle him tightly, stop and start, trying anything to make Jack crash.

It was awfully hot to go the long way around. There was not a hint of motorbike sound in the air. Jack turned and jumped the curb and started down the dirt rut that would bring him through the fields.

There were probably better names for the area than ‘fields’, as the land was far from flat, with hardly any grass and hundreds of trees and bushes. The hills were more than tall enough for hiding Dill. They were also great for climbing with mountain bikes or—in Jack’s most frequent daydreams—a four-wheeled ATV. Little kids built forts in the clumps of trees. Big kids kicked them down. Young couples used the path for handholding and secret kisses. Older couples walked their dogs. The dogs watched the birds, squirrels, rabbits and occasional deer. Every year a new house went up and the fields got smaller, but for now it was a great and dangerous shortcut.

Jack wove his way through the valley. It was not the most direct way through the fields, but it required the least number of ups and downs. As fun as coming down was, even the small hills were hard to climb with a full paper bag.

He was halfway through the fields when he heard the snarl. It was unmistakably a Kawasaki 450. Jack knew the sound too well. His heart stopped and re-started. Every muscle he had clenched up. Not this time, he said to himself. Jack stood up on his bike pedals and started pumping twice as hard.

The engine was getting louder, from behind and to his right. Maybe he could make it. He pumped harder. Rode faster. The sound of the dirt bike kept changing. Sometimes softening for second, then coming back even stronger than before. Jack knew Dill was going up and down hills, on a beeline right for him.

A beeline. He snickered at the thought. It sounded more like a million bees, all really mad at him.

Jack leaned his bike left, then right, then left, keeping his tires on the hardest dirt in the rut. That was how you got the most speed. Up and over a small trench. He flew a few inches high and across. He hit the ground, skidding, but holding. The bag of papers smacked his leg.

The motorcycle sound was huge. It was almost right on top of him. He glanced right and saw a burst of yellow just before it became blocked by a hill. Jack cranked his pedals with every ounce of energy he had. He was almost through the fields and it sounded like Dill was out in front. He passed me, Jack thought. He felt a flash of hope. Maybe Dill was just out riding. Maybe the hills hid me.

Jack put his head down and sprinted for the street. It was just a few yards now. He bent low over the handlebars with his mouth open all the way. His heart banged. His leg muscles screamed. He looked up and there was Dill, on his dirt bike, right in the middle of the path.

Jack could not think about stopping. With a piece of luck he thought he might