lunged. The blade of the spear caught the samurai just under the chin and sliced his head right off his shoulders.
The armored body part crashed to the floor. The helmeted head rolled and rolled and came to rest next to the fire pit. The red-lipped black faceplate stared at us in the light of the dying fire.
Sam and I stood up. Fred looked at the blade of the spear.
“Sorry?”
TWO
First of all, I want you to know that Fred and Sam and I are very sorry for any trouble we might have accidentally caused in the universe by slicing off someone’s head five hundred years before we were born.
Maybe one of your ancestors got turned into a monkey or a pig because of Fred’s spear chop. Maybe you are a monkey or a pig because of Fred’s spear chop. I don’t know. We’re not exactly sure what happens when someone messes with the past like we sometimes do. But we are working on it. And we are sorry. So ... well ... sorry, or “eee eee,” or “oink oink.”
Secondly, before we lose our own heads for being so impolite, for wearing shoes indoors, for moving a guy’s head closer to the fire, I’d like to try to explain how we got into this latest Time Warp jam.
If you are still reading this, and haven’t stomped off to go yell at the bookstore owner or teacher or librarian who would let children read such terrible things, you probably already know this is all because of a book. The Book. A dark blue book covered with strange silver writing and signs.
I got The Book as a birthday present from my Uncle Joe. He’s kind of a magician. Oh, and did I mention that The Book can send its readers anywhere in time and space? Did I mention that the only way to return to the present is to find The Book in that past or future time? Did I mention that The Book always disappears no matter what we do and leaves us stranded when we Time Warp? Did I mention this is beginning to drive me crazy!!??
Sorry.
I guess I just get a little annoyed because Fred and Sam and I are having a hard time making this time warping thing work when even our own great-granddaughters, who are girls, and a hundred years younger than us, can figure it out and—
I’m screaming again. Sorry. This messing around with time gets very complicated. Here, why don’t I just tell you what happened. Maybe you can figure it out. If you do, send me a postcard, and we’ll be happy to try your idea for hanging on to The Book. If you don’t have any bright ideas (or are still yelling at the bookstore owner, teacher, or librarian), save your stamp.
We were over at Sam’s house, working on our homework.
“Write three different examples of haiku,” Sam read from the assignment sheet. “Use the form five syllables for the first line, seven syllables for the second line, and five syllables for the last line. Remember the examples we studied in class.”
“Oh man,” said Fred. “I can’t believe it. This is such a goofball thing. Writing poetry.”
Sam squinted at Fred and adjusted his glasses like he does when he’s thinking. “Two more and you’re done.”
Fred pushed his Yomiuri Giants hat back on his head. “What?”
“You’ve got your first haiku,” said Sam.
“I can’t believe it.
This is such a goofball thing.
Writing poetry.”
“Wow,” said Fred. “I’m a natural.” He pulled out a half-ripped piece of paper and started writing it down.
“Fred, I was kidding. Hand that in to Ms. Basho, and she will freak out.” Sam squinted again. “Though that’s a pretty decent haiku, too.
“Fred, I was kidding.
Hand that in to Ms. Basho,
And she will freak out.”
“Come on, guys. Let’s get serious and finish this homework. I want to show you this trick I figured out,” I said. “Didn’t Ms. Basho say we have to write about Japanese things like cherry blossoms or ninjas?”
“No, no, no,” said Sam. “Why does every American kid think Japan is all about ninjas?”
“Because you see them in every computer game, cartoon, and kung-fu
The armored body part crashed to the floor. The helmeted head rolled and rolled and came to rest next to the fire pit. The red-lipped black faceplate stared at us in the light of the dying fire.
Sam and I stood up. Fred looked at the blade of the spear.
“Sorry?”
TWO
First of all, I want you to know that Fred and Sam and I are very sorry for any trouble we might have accidentally caused in the universe by slicing off someone’s head five hundred years before we were born.
Maybe one of your ancestors got turned into a monkey or a pig because of Fred’s spear chop. Maybe you are a monkey or a pig because of Fred’s spear chop. I don’t know. We’re not exactly sure what happens when someone messes with the past like we sometimes do. But we are working on it. And we are sorry. So ... well ... sorry, or “eee eee,” or “oink oink.”
Secondly, before we lose our own heads for being so impolite, for wearing shoes indoors, for moving a guy’s head closer to the fire, I’d like to try to explain how we got into this latest Time Warp jam.
If you are still reading this, and haven’t stomped off to go yell at the bookstore owner or teacher or librarian who would let children read such terrible things, you probably already know this is all because of a book. The Book. A dark blue book covered with strange silver writing and signs.
I got The Book as a birthday present from my Uncle Joe. He’s kind of a magician. Oh, and did I mention that The Book can send its readers anywhere in time and space? Did I mention that the only way to return to the present is to find The Book in that past or future time? Did I mention that The Book always disappears no matter what we do and leaves us stranded when we Time Warp? Did I mention this is beginning to drive me crazy!!??
Sorry.
I guess I just get a little annoyed because Fred and Sam and I are having a hard time making this time warping thing work when even our own great-granddaughters, who are girls, and a hundred years younger than us, can figure it out and—
I’m screaming again. Sorry. This messing around with time gets very complicated. Here, why don’t I just tell you what happened. Maybe you can figure it out. If you do, send me a postcard, and we’ll be happy to try your idea for hanging on to The Book. If you don’t have any bright ideas (or are still yelling at the bookstore owner, teacher, or librarian), save your stamp.
We were over at Sam’s house, working on our homework.
“Write three different examples of haiku,” Sam read from the assignment sheet. “Use the form five syllables for the first line, seven syllables for the second line, and five syllables for the last line. Remember the examples we studied in class.”
“Oh man,” said Fred. “I can’t believe it. This is such a goofball thing. Writing poetry.”
Sam squinted at Fred and adjusted his glasses like he does when he’s thinking. “Two more and you’re done.”
Fred pushed his Yomiuri Giants hat back on his head. “What?”
“You’ve got your first haiku,” said Sam.
“I can’t believe it.
This is such a goofball thing.
Writing poetry.”
“Wow,” said Fred. “I’m a natural.” He pulled out a half-ripped piece of paper and started writing it down.
“Fred, I was kidding. Hand that in to Ms. Basho, and she will freak out.” Sam squinted again. “Though that’s a pretty decent haiku, too.
“Fred, I was kidding.
Hand that in to Ms. Basho,
And she will freak out.”
“Come on, guys. Let’s get serious and finish this homework. I want to show you this trick I figured out,” I said. “Didn’t Ms. Basho say we have to write about Japanese things like cherry blossoms or ninjas?”
“No, no, no,” said Sam. “Why does every American kid think Japan is all about ninjas?”
“Because you see them in every computer game, cartoon, and kung-fu
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