The Projectionist
Chapter 1: The Tree Circle
Behind the town, up the hill, and deep into the woods, Ceres sat cross-legged in the middle of the Tree Circle. Around her swirled a thin fog, a speckled grey in the dwindling light, hiding the creatures rustling the ferns. The frazzle of the day had left a distinct stickiness in the air.
The other kids huddled around her, perched on logs or mounds of earth, their bikes hidden in bushes. Whispers muffled through the haze. Rumours of her latest creation had brought them again, under cover of evening, from across town. But Ceres knew it couldn’t last. Stories were frowned upon now.
A hushed expectancy fell over the glade, the chatter drifting away. All eyes turned to twelve-year old Ceres in the centre of the clearing, sitting as still as the trees themselves.
She had organised tonight’s story carefully within the deeper layers of her imagination, practising it night and day. It will work this time; I know it will! And the waves will be milky lime…
Flicking back her fringe, she breathed in the scent of pine needles. Then, she counted down slowly in her familiar whisper: “Three – Two – One…”
Silence.
A twinkle appeared in Ceres’ left eye, a twinkle that glowed fiercer and fiercer until it became a dancing spark, a spark that raged brighter and brighter until it dazzled like a headlight on full beam. When the whole of her eye was illuminated, a hazy streak of pure light extended outward, projecting moving images straight and steady through the mist.
Her story jittered to life like a film from the old days, projected onto trees, ferns and boulders, filling the Tree Circle with visions.
The audience gasped and murmured. She’d done it again!
Over their heads a silver spacecraft shimmered, suspended in the air. The forest floor became a faraway planet, an exotic ocean world of emerald greens under the crimson flames of the falling rocket. Lightning forks slashed the sky, so real that one girl fell off her stump.
Ceres didn’t move a muscle, despite the pounding in her chest. It took every ounce of energy to project a story so rich and detailed. Whilst her left eye glimmered and flared, she kept the right one fixed on her audience.
There they were—kids she knew from school, kids she could talk to, a few she couldn’t stand. She recognised Bogjammer, Party-Pooper, Ditherer, and even Tooth Fairy, their faces glistening in the humidity. And all of them, as one, gazed towards the space in the middle of the Tree Circle, bodies stilled, faces mesmerised; bewitched even. Ceres smiled, escaping back into her story, confident she’d plotted it tight.
The rocket descended on the watery planet. Its metal fins gleamed through the storm, huge plumes of engine smoke billowed, as curious fish watched from the milky lime sea. Next the scene cut to the cosmonaut inside, a shadow figure, watching through a porthole, blinking lights dancing across their mirrored helmet.
Suddenly, a ripple coursed through the projection. Nothing much to begin with. But soon a regular scratchy movement jarring the flow.
Ceres swallowed a lump. She focused her light beam as intently as she could.
It wasn’t enough.
The images on the trees paused, then flickered, holes shredding through them. No, no, no! she thought, as the projection faltered, a glitchy, jumpy, dissolving mess, that folded in on itself. The spark shrank from her eye and vanished.
The Tree Circle stood grey and empty, the air drained of colour and movement. Ceres’ audience stared at where the story had sparkled only a few moments before, as if still living the space adventure in their minds.
Ceres watched Tooth Fairy’s grin fade. It was a miracle she’d persuaded her to come. And for this!
She absorbed the nothingness, wondering if her heart might stop.
If only it would.
She shook down her fringe and allowed her head to fall under its own weight. A meltdown! A clunker, a calamity, a catastrophe; all botched up together. Whatever would she say to little Hemingway?
Ceres blinked once. Then twice.
How could she be so small, so wrong, so broken? She wished she were somewhere else, anywhere else—anywhere else from here.
But if only she’d known then, where such a wish might take her.
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Praise for The Projectionist
‘A weird and wonderful adventure for ages eight-twelve…’—Local magazine
‘…An inventive and heartwarming middle grade tale that reimagines the art of storytelling with stunning originality’ —Review Tales
‘Whimsical and quirky—a delight’ —Amazon reviewer, Spain
‘A wonderfully fun and imaginative story for 9 – 12 year olds. A FINALIST and highly recommended!’ —Wishing Shelf Book Awards
‘A dystopian adventure for young readers that celebrates stories’ (Indie Books We Love) —LoveReading4Kids
‘… an imaginative and really fun story for both grown ups and children. Left me curious to read more from Bigfoot :)’ —LibraryThing reviewer
