Fiction, Jack

Jack and The Fountain of Youth — Audio Installment 2

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Jack Cover with border small canvas

by HL Carpenter
ISBN: 978-0-9884095-1-4
Ebook ISBN: 978-0-9884095-0-7
Copyright (c) 2012 by Top Drawer Ink Corp.


Continued from Audio Installment 1
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Jack and The Fountain of Youth — Audio Installment 2


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Below is the text version of the audio.

Mr. Newman unwrapped another candy and popped it into his mouth. The aroma of peppermint filled the office again. “His name’s Moran Tennies. He says the Fountain of Youth is on a farm owned by Mrs. Corinda Owens Tagg.”

Poor Mrs. Tagg.

Jack didn’t know her, but he already felt sorry for her. If anyone found out the Pryer had sent a reporter to look for the Fountain of Youth on her property, she’d have more visitors than she’d ever expected, and not all of them would be nice.

The Pryer made a lot of money publishing peculiar tales and outlandish cover photos, both online and in print. To keep the stories and the advertising dollars coming, the paper offered a cash reward for information leading to a front-page, just-this-side-of-believable exposé. Some of the people trying to collect the fee didn’t care who got hurt in the process.

Things were going to change when — if — he and Tia Bella bought the paper. Making an informed decision about whether they would or not was the only reason he’d signed up as an intern this summer, and the only reason he couldn’t tell Mr. Newman to take a long hike off Everyoung’s short pier. He had no intention of dredging up the heartbreak of the past, no intention of getting even the tiniest bit excited about finding the Fountain again, no intention of ever, and he meant ever—

“Earth to Jack. Earth to Jack.”

He jerked upright in his chair and jotted the names in his pad with his chewed pencil stub. “Moran Tennies. Corinda Owens Tagg. Is that all?”

“Two more things.” Mr. Newman narrowed his eyes and jutted his chin in another gorilla imitation. “First, the Luminary will probably send Sylvester Liaberco to sniff out what you’re up to. If you recall, Sly scooped you with his digital shot of Bigfoot a couple of weeks ago.”

Jack didn’t need the reminder. He vividly remembered Mr. Liaberco and the Bigfoot fiasco. He’d have finished his work at the Pryer already if it hadn’t happened.

“The Pryer better not lose out again. That’s a warning. And second…” Mr. Newman rummaged through the mess in his desk drawer. He pulled out an envelope and handed it to Jack. “Corinda Owens Tagg has a sister. Her name is Nessa Owens. She won our Best Herb Tip Contest. You can deliver the check. That will give you a way to introduce yourself.”

Jack took the envelope and tucked it into the pages of his notebook. He put the notebook back in his pocket and shoved the pencil behind his ear. He was not thinking about the Fountain of Youth. He was not.

Mr. Newman swallowed a third peppermint and drummed his fingers on his desk.

“Any final instructions?” Jack asked.

“Since Everyoung is still a mess from the flood damage Tropical Storm Kyle caused, and since another big storm is on the horizon, I’m giving you extra time. You have two full days to meet this week’s publication deadline.” Mr. Newman glanced at his watch as if making sure it was still eight o’clock Monday morning. “I want you back here in my office on Wednesday at eight a.m., with the scoop. Don’t mess up. This could be the story of the century.”

Apparently the centuries were flying past faster than Jack had realized. The Pryer had made the same claim last month in a story about aliens from a distant galaxy who spent summers in a secret room under the White House.

On the other hand, locating the Fountain of Youth would be the news flash of the century. And no one knew better than he did that the Fountain was real. Even though he was not thinking about the Fountain.

Jack stood. “I’ll do my best.”

Mr. Newman crunched a fourth peppermint and dismissed him with a wave. “I hope your best is good enough.”

Jack hoped so too. What would he learn when he talked to Corinda Owens Tagg and her sister Nessa Owens? Could the Fountain really be where the source said? Was there the slightest possibility the tip was solid?

Of course not.

He walked out of Mr. Newman’s office. He had to quit being stupid. No doubt the tipster, Moran Tennies, was a few ships shy of an armada. The chances of ever finding the Fountain again were smaller than nada. After all, hadn’t he spent decades looking?

So why did he continue to want to believe? It wasn’t as if he didn’t have other things to think about. Even if this tip was false—which it was—innocent people were involved.

He left the building and unlocked his mountain bike from the rack in the parking lot. The story would wreak havoc on the lives of Corinda Owens Tagg and her sister Nessa.

How could he minimize the impact on them?

Twenty-five minutes later, he arrived on the outskirts of Everyoung. During the hot sweaty ride, he’d had no flashes of insight about the best way to complete the assignment without harming anyone, including himself.

Still planless, he rode his bike into a parking lot in front of a pair of sun-bleached cypress wood buildings. According to his GPS, he was only a few blocks from his destination. He braked to a halt.

The sign on the old building on the right announced the world headquarters of STERLING’S MUSEUM, A COMPENDIUM OF CULTURE. The sign on the front of the left building read IDA’S EMPORIUM. A weathered old man and a stick-thin woman dressed in period costume sat in bent cane rocking chairs on the front porch. They smiled and waved.

Jack didn’t feel like smiling, but he waved back. Buying a cold soda from IDA’S EMPORIUM would let him put off the interview with Nessa Owens for a couple more minutes and give him that much longer to come up with a plan. If doing that was even possible.

At the very least, he could learn more about Moran Tennies or Corinda Owens Tagg or Nessa Owens from the people on the porch.

He leaned his bike against a utility pole, pulled his notebook from his back pocket, and started across the parking lot.

“Look out!”

He whirled at the warning shout. A girl on a runaway bike careened toward him, out of control and picking up speed.

“Look out!” she yelled again.

Before Jack could do more than drop the notebook and brace himself to catch the girl, the bike slammed into him.


***** ABOUT THE AUTHOR *****

HL Carpenter is the pen name of a Florida-based mother/daughter duo who writes from their studios in Carpenter Country, a magical place that, like their stories, is unreal but not untrue. When they’re not writing, the Carpenters enjoy exploring the Land of What-If and practicing the fine art of Curiosity.

Also by HL Carpenter:

The SkyHorse. Fourteen year old Tovi thinks finding a flying horse is fabulous luck–until a mysterious stranger says finders aren’t always keepers.

Dream Stealer. Is stealing a dream better than losing your own?


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