I like to write Stooge fan fiction. I come up with a new one almost every day (even though I'm in a lapse at the moment ). But nevertheless, I will post my fanfics here.
P.S. I share these with my English teacher to get Extra Learning credit. She loves them! I have more of them saved on the computers at school. I will post them when I get to school on Monday. Until then, read this one. It has a Harry Potter feel to it.
A Book to the Past
A Three Stooges fan fiction by moe-jo
Larry stumbled through the pouring rain. It was about four in the afternoon, but the howling rain made it seem like midnight. Larry would never have had to worry about this weather if stupid Robert Gershom hadn’t been picking on him. Earlier on in the school day, when it had not been raining as hard as it was now, Larry had found a book. Not a book, per se, like The Adventures of Tom Sawyer or Lord of the Flies or even The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, but an old book, an ancient book. He found it in one of the boys’ bathrooms after school. Robert Gershom had come in when Larry had been studying it closely and had stolen it and had flushed it down the toilet. By the time Larry had reclaimed the book and dried it off, he had missed his bus and had to walk home. Now he was stuck with this.
Larry stopped to look at a sign as he was running and slipped and fell in a puddle. The book, by its own power, it seemed, slid out of his hands and fell into a sewer grate in the sidewalk. “Hey, come back!” Larry shouted. It was no use. The book was gone. Larry sighed and slowed his run down to a walk. He didn’t care about getting wet anymore. Bad things always happened to him. No matter how hard he tried to stay out of trouble, it usually found him. Larry didn’t know why he even bothered to try to avoid it.
Suddenly, ahead of him, he saw a flash of green light. A brown object seemed to pop out of the ground: the book! Larry dashed across the puddles to grab it. “I gotta take you home and show everybody,” he said to the book. “I can’t lose you anymore.”
“I’ve seen this before…” Shemp thought.
Larry, Curly, Shemp, and Ted Healy, a frequent visitor to the boys’ apartment in downtown Boston, were sitting at a table in the kitchen of the apartment. Moe was sitting on the counter, waiting for a piece of pizza to finish cooking in the microwave.
“Where’ve you seen it, Shemp?” Curly asked.
Shemp stood up and started pacing.
“On my way home from school once…it was brown and it had a hurricane or something on it…”
“That’s exactly what mine looks like!” Larry exclaimed.
Moe rolled his eyes and shook his head. Larry can be so transparent sometimes, he thought. He took out a beer from the refrigerator, grabbed his pizza, sat down at the table, and grabbed the book from Larry’s hands. Shemp was still talking.
“—quacked like a duck. And then it lit up and I got sucked into it! And everything was all black and white and everything! It was like I had been sucked into the past or something!”
“What?” Curly and Ted exclaimed together.
“Yeah! And then I got back to where I was before I was sucked in, and the thing just like skyrocketed out of my hands! It was like crazy!”
“Wow,” said Ted, awestruck.
“So, what you’re saying is…” Larry began. His voice trailed off. Curly finished the sentence for him. “That this book…can take you into the past?”
“More than that, man,” Shemp replied. “I took a pencil and wrote in it, and words started appearing in it!”
Moe rolled his eyes and shook his head again.
“I think…” Curly began. Everyone turned to look at him. “I think…that we can time-travel…because if there are things written in there…uh, that is, if it is a diary like we think it is…maybe we could go back in time to those events…”
“That’s a good theory, Curly, but there’s only one problem,” said Moe, flipping through the pages. “There’s nothing written in this diary.”
Later in his room, Larry examined the diary. At least, that’s what the boys had assumed it was. Moe’s words still rang in Larry’s head. There’s nothing written in this diary. That’s morally impossible, thought Larry. The dictionary definition of a diary is “a daily record, usually private, especially of the writer's own experiences, observations, feelings, attitudes, etc.” Larry had several diaries of his own he kept, each following that dictionary definition. The question kept ringing in his mind as if Quasimodo was ringing it like the giant church bell at Notre Dame: why would someone keep a diary only to not write in it? Then Larry thought about what Shemp had said. While he was sitting at the table with the boys, he had thought what Shemp had said was just a figment of his broad (if sometimes annoying) imagination, but now he really thought about it. He opened the book, took a pen, and wrote,
“To whoever owns this diary: my name is Larry Fine.”
He sat back, then leaned forward again. The words had disappeared. New words and another name had appeared in their place.
“Charmed to meet you, Larry. Moe Howard.”
Larry leaned forward so much he almost fell off his chair. He was ninety percent sure, but he still had to ask.
“Are you my brother?”
“Yes.”
Larry’s eyes grew wide in shock.
“Who does this diary belong to?”
“Me.”
Larry dropped his pen. Both of his hands were shaking uncontrollably. He was drenched in cold, clammy sweat.
“Explain this diary to me.”
“To explain the numerous secrets of this diary, that is impossible.”
Larry sighed and sat back. Just like Moe to get someone excited and then drive them off a cliff.
“But I can show them to you.”
Larry leaned forward and stared into the blank page of the diary.
“Let me take you back six months ago.”
Larry picked up the diary. The pages started flipping madly, then stopped on an ink-blotted page towards the end of the diary. A date was visible in the upper right-hand corner: “20th September.”
A purple light shone through the seam of the diary. It filled Larry’s room. Larry looked around him in shock. All of a sudden, he was lifted off of his chair and into the book.
Larry fell to the ground with a thud. He got up and looked around him, looking for signs of life. He touched himself to see if he was still real. He was. He looked down at his shoes. He was still wearing the same T-shirt and jeans. He looked up again. He was in a deserted street downtown. It was pitch black out and the street was dimly lit by street lamps. A dense fog hung over the city. Very few buildings had their lights on. Larry looked up and down the street repeatedly. The first few times he looked, there was no one there. The fifth time he looked down the street, a man had appeared. The man was Caucasian with black hair in an upside-down soup bowl fashion. He was wearing a trench coat and walking slowly towards Larry. He appeared to be holding a long, slender object in his left hand. The expression on his face was grave. Moe Howard stopped in the middle of the road in Larry’s line of vision. He looked left and right, and then kept walking up the street. Larry followed him. “Moe? Moe? Moe, can you hear me?”
Moe did not answer. He just kept walking.
Larry paused for a moment. It wasn’t like Moe to ignore people, he thought. Then he remembered all of the movies he had seen about people that meddle with the past. The people INSIDE the past cannot see you or hear you. Larry continued to follow Moe up the street. Finally, after spending some time walking in the middle of the road, Moe crossed over to Larry’s side of the street and walked some more. He finally stopped in front of an old, almost gone building. The thing looked like it was about to tip over. Moe took out the long, slender object he was holding in his left hand and opened it. Larry gasped but shut his mouth immediately when Moe looked in his direction. It was the book. Moe walked inside the building, which had no door, and Larry followed.
Inside, Larry found himself in what looked like a small waiting room. The room was not very well lit. It was lit by candles that hung in brackets in an adjacent hallway next to a large reception desk. Old men sat in red chintz armchairs by a glass window looking at the dimly lit street outside. The woman behind the reception desk bore the resemblance to an old hag. Her right eye was missing, and she was hobbled over, trying desperately to hold on to her cane. Moe walked up to her and said, “Found this lying around. Thought you might find it interesting.”
The old woman examined the book with her only good eye. “Aye,” she said, in a voice that made Larry think of metal against a blackboard. “This is a good find, boy. Let’s have a look-see.”
The old woman opened the book. She ran a claw-like finger along the page. The page rippled like water. She closed the book and looked up at Moe. “Follow me,” her raspy voice beckoned.
Larry followed Moe and the old woman down the hallway lit by the candles. About three-quarters of the way down, the old woman stopped in front of a door that was as banged up as the building itself. The door had three peeling gold numbers on it: “666.” The old woman opened it and Larry found himself inside what resembled a doctor’s office. There was a bed to his left and a small countertop to his right. The old woman placed the book on the bed and stood back. Moe stood next to her. The old woman muttered words in some strange ancient language. The book’s pages flipped madly and the room shone with intense golden light. A creature came out of the book. It was green and scaly and had long pointy ears.
“You have called?” it said in a loud whisper.
“Yes, Lord,” the old woman replied.
“What for?”
“There is a stranger in this room. We know not who he is, and we ask you to do away with him.”
“I see him.”
“Who is it, Lord?”
“That one. In front of the door.”
The creature yelled more words in the strange ancient language. There was a burst of green light, and when the light had disappeared, all that remained of Larry Fine was his shoes.