Elliot Stone and the Mystery of the Alien Mom
Chase, L.P.
ISBN 13: 978-1-897381-10-6
Paperback; perfect bound; 5.5 x 8.5
Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.
CHAPTER ONE
The Green
My name is Elliot H. Stone. The “H” stands for Hubert, after my father, but I don’t admit that to too many people. Strange middle names can cause lots of trouble when you’re in third grade. I’m your average, ordinary kid—at least I think I am. Most of my friends think I’m pretty cool, except for Cassie Hawthorne, a girl in my class. She says I’m a geek, and she doesn’t even know my middle name. The truth is I think she just likes me. You know . . . likes me likes me, not just likes me. Yuucckk!
She’s okay to be friends with, since she is sort-a like a guy anyway, but that’s all. The last thing I need right now is a case of the cooties. Being in third grade is hard enough. Anyway, back to important business.
You see, the problem is my mom and I’m not sure if it really is a problem yet. Her name is Elizabeth, but most people call her Liz. Most of the time she seems like a normal mom, the kind of mom who yells when my room is a mess (which is mostly all the time) and makes me eat vegetables at dinner almost every night. I can always tell when she makes frozen broccoli and tries to pass it off as the real thing. It’s hard enough to eat broccoli. I hate that frozen stuff.
She does the usual things like bug out her eyes and talk through her teeth to me and my sister Samantha when we’re in public and she can’t yell at us. Don’t get me wrong, she’s kind of cool too. Occasionally she’ll set out on a mission to slay the boogieman for my sister—he sometimes hangs out in her room—or make sure no space aliens are in my closet at bedtime.
I can never sleep with the closet door open. She’s almost always in search of the resident house ghost who keeps leaving clothes on the floor or shoes in the middle of the room. But we also spend lots of time doing neat things like playing board games or doing science experiments. She’s really cool about making messes. Then there are the times we bake cookies and brownies and stuff. She isn’t always spinning her head around yelling, but when she does, watch out! Her explanations can potentially go on for days. And don’t dare get caught not listening, oh boy, trust me. If you do, plan on putting on your pajamas and going up to bed at lunchtime with no food for the rest of the day. I hate when my stomach growls, so I try not to make that mistake too often. Anyway, mostly everyone I know has a mom who’s sort of the same. But then there’s my friend Jacob Weber. I call him Jake. He’s my very best friend. We’ve known each other since pre-school.
His mom is like, well, like a glamour doll. She always has this electric blue paste on her eyes and shiny stuff on her lips and her hair is completely pointy—I mean like sharp. Once I bumped into her when she was bending down to pick up my rocket launcher. I bent down at the same time and her hair nearly poked my eye out. She should wear a warning sign that reads: Caution, Hazardous Hair. Ever since that day, I call her Spike. I wouldn’t call her Spike when I’m talking to Jake though. It might hurt his feelings.
She always dresses in funny clothes like a rock singer or something. I think she looks like a kid, not a mom. She’s always rubbing Jake’s hair and kissing him on the head while us guys are hanging out. She gushes all over him. I have to say, it’s not good for his tough-guy image. Between you and
me, I think Jake is embarrassed; I would never tell him that because I kind of feel sorry for him. She’s nice and all, but I’m glad she’s not my mom.
I keep getting off the track though. It was a few months ago when I noticed it. The most peculiar thing happened. It was a Saturday morning and I was standing just outside my parents’ bedroom door and overheard my mom talking on the phone. I guess you could say I was eavesdropping. . . a little, if there is such a thing, when I heard her say to the person on the other end of the phone, “I’m afraid I’m beginning to turn green already.”
My eyes flew open wide and my eyebrows practically jumped into my hair.
Why would she be turning green? I wondered. Was she turning into an alien?
A million questions went running through my head. Maybe when she was checking for space aliens in my closet, one was actually in there and started taking over her body. Maybe she’s not actually my mother anymore. I quickly tried to tiptoe away from the door when suddenly she opened it with a crash.
“Ahhhhhh!”
“Elliot, what are you doing outside my door?” she asked.
“Uh, I was wondering, if . . . um, my um . . . green socks were in here?” I blurted out. Oh brother, I could have come up with something better than that.
“No they’re not. Did you hear me talking?” she replied (in a little snippy tone, I might add).
“Nope, uh, why? Were you, uh, saying something?” I answered as calmly and coolly as I could. I think I was virtually undetectable.
“No,” she answered very quickly and closed the door again.
What is she hiding from me? I wondered. I ran downstairs and called Jake. “You have to meet me in the clubhouse pronto,” I told him. I slammed the phone down, grabbed my torn green windbreaker and black top-secret backpack, and yelled up the stairs: “Mom, I’m going to the clubhouse with Jake. I’ll be home in an hour!” I ran as fast as I could down my block and into the empty field. I could feel my heart beating in my ears as I approached our secret area. I moved over some loose bushes that Jake and I had dug out so they could camouflage our entrance and pushed my way in through the branches.
There was our top-secret hideout. Just up a few feet was the perfect tree, with the perfect ladder, leading to the perfect top-secret clubhouse. I always feel so safe there. We built that clubhouse piece by piece with our bare hands. I got some extra pieces of plywood from my dad, a few two-by-fours, and some rope to help us climb up the ladder. We used real hammers and nails. I only hammered my fingers a few times. After a while, it didn’t hurt that bad but the bluish, purple color stood out a bit. It adds character………..
Chase, L.P.
ISBN 13: 978-1-897381-10-6
Paperback; perfect bound; 5.5 x 8.5
Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.
CHAPTER ONE
The Green
My name is Elliot H. Stone. The “H” stands for Hubert, after my father, but I don’t admit that to too many people. Strange middle names can cause lots of trouble when you’re in third grade. I’m your average, ordinary kid—at least I think I am. Most of my friends think I’m pretty cool, except for Cassie Hawthorne, a girl in my class. She says I’m a geek, and she doesn’t even know my middle name. The truth is I think she just likes me. You know . . . likes me likes me, not just likes me. Yuucckk!
She’s okay to be friends with, since she is sort-a like a guy anyway, but that’s all. The last thing I need right now is a case of the cooties. Being in third grade is hard enough. Anyway, back to important business.
You see, the problem is my mom and I’m not sure if it really is a problem yet. Her name is Elizabeth, but most people call her Liz. Most of the time she seems like a normal mom, the kind of mom who yells when my room is a mess (which is mostly all the time) and makes me eat vegetables at dinner almost every night. I can always tell when she makes frozen broccoli and tries to pass it off as the real thing. It’s hard enough to eat broccoli. I hate that frozen stuff.
She does the usual things like bug out her eyes and talk through her teeth to me and my sister Samantha when we’re in public and she can’t yell at us. Don’t get me wrong, she’s kind of cool too. Occasionally she’ll set out on a mission to slay the boogieman for my sister—he sometimes hangs out in her room—or make sure no space aliens are in my closet at bedtime.
I can never sleep with the closet door open. She’s almost always in search of the resident house ghost who keeps leaving clothes on the floor or shoes in the middle of the room. But we also spend lots of time doing neat things like playing board games or doing science experiments. She’s really cool about making messes. Then there are the times we bake cookies and brownies and stuff. She isn’t always spinning her head around yelling, but when she does, watch out! Her explanations can potentially go on for days. And don’t dare get caught not listening, oh boy, trust me. If you do, plan on putting on your pajamas and going up to bed at lunchtime with no food for the rest of the day. I hate when my stomach growls, so I try not to make that mistake too often. Anyway, mostly everyone I know has a mom who’s sort of the same. But then there’s my friend Jacob Weber. I call him Jake. He’s my very best friend. We’ve known each other since pre-school.
His mom is like, well, like a glamour doll. She always has this electric blue paste on her eyes and shiny stuff on her lips and her hair is completely pointy—I mean like sharp. Once I bumped into her when she was bending down to pick up my rocket launcher. I bent down at the same time and her hair nearly poked my eye out. She should wear a warning sign that reads: Caution, Hazardous Hair. Ever since that day, I call her Spike. I wouldn’t call her Spike when I’m talking to Jake though. It might hurt his feelings.
She always dresses in funny clothes like a rock singer or something. I think she looks like a kid, not a mom. She’s always rubbing Jake’s hair and kissing him on the head while us guys are hanging out. She gushes all over him. I have to say, it’s not good for his tough-guy image. Between you and
me, I think Jake is embarrassed; I would never tell him that because I kind of feel sorry for him. She’s nice and all, but I’m glad she’s not my mom.
I keep getting off the track though. It was a few months ago when I noticed it. The most peculiar thing happened. It was a Saturday morning and I was standing just outside my parents’ bedroom door and overheard my mom talking on the phone. I guess you could say I was eavesdropping. . . a little, if there is such a thing, when I heard her say to the person on the other end of the phone, “I’m afraid I’m beginning to turn green already.”
My eyes flew open wide and my eyebrows practically jumped into my hair.
Why would she be turning green? I wondered. Was she turning into an alien?
A million questions went running through my head. Maybe when she was checking for space aliens in my closet, one was actually in there and started taking over her body. Maybe she’s not actually my mother anymore. I quickly tried to tiptoe away from the door when suddenly she opened it with a crash.
“Ahhhhhh!”
“Elliot, what are you doing outside my door?” she asked.
“Uh, I was wondering, if . . . um, my um . . . green socks were in here?” I blurted out. Oh brother, I could have come up with something better than that.
“No they’re not. Did you hear me talking?” she replied (in a little snippy tone, I might add).
“Nope, uh, why? Were you, uh, saying something?” I answered as calmly and coolly as I could. I think I was virtually undetectable.
“No,” she answered very quickly and closed the door again.
What is she hiding from me? I wondered. I ran downstairs and called Jake. “You have to meet me in the clubhouse pronto,” I told him. I slammed the phone down, grabbed my torn green windbreaker and black top-secret backpack, and yelled up the stairs: “Mom, I’m going to the clubhouse with Jake. I’ll be home in an hour!” I ran as fast as I could down my block and into the empty field. I could feel my heart beating in my ears as I approached our secret area. I moved over some loose bushes that Jake and I had dug out so they could camouflage our entrance and pushed my way in through the branches.
There was our top-secret hideout. Just up a few feet was the perfect tree, with the perfect ladder, leading to the perfect top-secret clubhouse. I always feel so safe there. We built that clubhouse piece by piece with our bare hands. I got some extra pieces of plywood from my dad, a few two-by-fours, and some rope to help us climb up the ladder. We used real hammers and nails. I only hammered my fingers a few times. After a while, it didn’t hurt that bad but the bluish, purple color stood out a bit. It adds character………..
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