Choose Your Own Adventure: St Helena Station

*****Preface*****

I have been obsessed with Choose Your Own Adventure stories since I was a kid. I credit them with my love of reading and writing. I've been struggling to get my own kids to embrace words the same way I have but they love video games and our occasional Dungeon's and Dragon's game... which gave me an idea. I'll write an interactive story. So far its working; my middle son loves it and can't wait for the next section to come out.

Then I had another idea.. why not extend these options to you all and let Vocal decide where the story goes. And so, I present to you...

St. Helena Station: A Choose Your Own Adventure

June 18th, 1924; Somewhere in the Pacific Ocean

The deck of the steamship Innsmouth rolls beneath your feet, and your stomach can’t help but roll with it. You grip the salt-crusted railing and focus on the horizon. That's what a sailor told you to do this morning, though its hardly helping. Keep your eyes on something steady, kid. Easier said than done when the horizon won't stay still and you feel your stomach threaten to spill out over the deck. You try focusing on the setting sun as it bleeds orange and red across the water.

You've been at sea for three days now, and you still haven't gotten your sea legs.

You try to take your mind off your stomach by focusing on your uncle’s letter as it crinkles in your hand. You've read it so many times the paper has worn thin and is starting to tear— but you can't help yourself. Uncle Charlie's letters are what got you here, crossing the Pacific Ocean, alone.

You can still see your worried parent’s faces as you stepped onto the gangway and boarded the steamship. It's an opportunity I can't ignore, you told them. Uncle Charlie is a famous marine biologist. Think of what I'll learn at his research station!

They’d agreed. Reluctantly. It would be good for you to get your nose out of those books and explore the world for once.

Your uncle’s letter had been waiting for you at the dock, handed to you by a red faced courier just before you boarded. You knew instantly this letter was different. You could tell as soon as you unfolded the pale yellow paper.

Uncle Charlie's handwriting was always sprawling and loose, like he was too excited to keep his pen under control. But these words… these words slanted forward, desperately, chasing each other across the page. You can almost see his hand shaking as he wrote. You unfold it and begin reading again, though you've practically memorized the ending.

The hour is near. I've found it! Make haste!

—Uncle Charlie

Found what? He never mentioned looking for anything specific in his other letters. Just his usual research: cataloging specimens, studying tide pools, that sort of thing. But there's something in those words that makes your skin prickle. Not to mention the ominous post-script at the very bottom of the page.

Trust no one.

As you roll his words around in your head, the ship lurches again. You decide if you’re going to throw up, you’d rather do it in the privacy of your own cabin. You turn to head in, tucking the letter into your coat pocket— And nearly collide with a boy about your age.

"Sorry!" you both say at the same time.

He's shorter than you, wearing a faded blue work shirt that's too big for him. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows and you see his olive, sun-darkened skin. Pacific Islander, you think, though you don't know enough to guess which island. The ocean breeze whips his black hair around his face as he gives you a quick, polite, smile and continues past you toward the galley entrance.

"Excuse me, boy." A man in an expensive three-piece suit and bowler hat steps into the boy's path, his voice is sharp and nasal.

You notice his shoes are polished to a mirror shine, completely out of place on a ship deck. You've seen him at dinner; Corelius Ashworth. He's always sitting at the captain's table, talking loudly about some import business he runs in Manila.

The boy stops and hesitantly clears his throat. "Umm.. Yes, sir?"

The man in the bowler hat looks down his nose, though he's barely an inch taller than the boy.

He pulls a silk handkerchief from his pocket and dabs at his mouth, as if the conversation itself is distasteful. "The galley is for ticketed passengers. The crew quarters are below deck."

The boy's voice is steady, but you can see his shoulders tense, "I am a passenger, sir. I— I have my ticket right here." He begins rummaging through his shirt pocket.

The man's lip curls slightly. "Do you." You can tell it’s not a question. "And I suppose you'll be wanting to dine with the rest of… us… as well then? How progressive..." He says the word like the syllables are noxious.

You look around and notice a couple of passengers slowing their evening strolls to watch. An older woman in a wide brimmed hat whispers something to her companion.

The boy's hands curl into fists at his sides, but his voice stays level. "I just need to get some food, sir. Then I'll be out of your way."

"I'm sure the crew can bring you something more... appropriate. To wherever it is you're staying." The man straightens his cufflinks, the gold catching the dying sunlight. "We wouldn't want you to feel uncomfortable among your betters."

The boy doesn't move for a moment. You can see his thoughts racing behind his eyes— Is this fight worth it? The wind tugs at his loose shirt.

The ship groans and sways. Your stomach turns again, but this time… it has nothing to do with seasickness.

What do you do?

1) Step forward and speak up. The boy has as much right to eat here as anyone. This isn't fair.

2) Look away. It's uncomfortable, but it's not your business. It'll sort itself out.

3) Walk to your cabin. You need to lie down. Your uncle's letter is still nagging at you, and your stomach is getting worse. You'll just... go below deck.

******Author's Note*****

I'll leave this story up for about a week before tallying up the responses which will dictate which direction we head next...... choose wisely....