The Imagination Box: Beyond Infinity - Hardcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Martyn Ford is a journalist from Hampshire, England. He likes pasta and enjoys pressing keys on his laptop until stories appear. His first book, It Happened to Me, is a collection of shocking true stories. The Imagination Box was his first story for young readers. The Imagination Box: Beyond Infinity continues the story. Visit Martyn at martyn-ford.com.

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Chapter 1

The Dawn Star Hotel’s sign was bold, glowing in the gray air. Heavy hats of fresh snow, orange under spotlights, sat atop it. The bronze D, in particular, was creaking under the weight--a small gust was all it took to dislodge the letter, causing it to lean and fall.

Inside, in reception, Elisa flinched at the deep thud. After a swift inspection outside, she stomped back through the hotel’s new revolving doors, shaking away the chill.

“The D snapped off,” she said. “The place is falling apart. I’m getting the builders to look at that too. It could have killed someone.”

“What’s that?” Tim said, from the sofa in the lobby. He didn’t look up--his hand continued flowing left and right as he shaded a picture in his sketch pad.

“It’s just outrageous. ‘The awn Star Hotel’? What next?”

“The A?” Tim suggested, changing his pencil for another.

Unimpressed, Elisa disappeared through the tall oak doors, deeper into the building. Tim put his feet up on the small coffee table in front of him--tilting his head, inspecting his work. The hotel’s reception area was huge. In fact, you could probably fit an average-sized house in there and it wouldn’t touch the sides. Tim enjoyed a big room--it was as though the farther he could see, the more clearly he could think. This was no more so than at night when he would look up at the stars.

His thick sketch pad, perched on his lap, was opened to an incredibly detailed picture of a tortoise. Not just any tortoise, no--this was Astro-Turtle, the Shelled Cosmonaut. And it was good work, Tim thought, adding a final reflection to the turtle’s visor with the corner of his eraser. He’d drawn enough for today, so he shut the pad, put it under his arm, and headed for his bedroom.

In the hall, Tim was greeted by a ripping noise that echoed all the way to the stairwell. Two decorators were tugging up the last strips of carpet, the dust making him think of a vacuum cleaner as he resisted the brewing tickle of a sneeze.

The patterned carpet--on which Tim had spent much of his youth hopping up and down, pretending the red parts were lava and the spirals were stepping-stones--was going. It was to be replaced, he had been told, by well-polished floorboards. The hotel was growing up.

Not letting the demise of fond memories bother him too much, Tim went up to the second floor and into his bedroom--his sanctuary. It used to be just another guest suite, but aside from the layout, it was now unrecognizable as a hotel room. Colorful and messy, it was decorated and cobbled together with artwork and things he had created in his Imagination Box: his clapper lamp, his glow-in-the-dark clock, the bubble machine, Merry Monkey Circus (a dollhouse-sized tent of fun for Phil), and everything in between.

You see, during last year’s summer vacation, a man named Professor George Eisenstone had stayed at the Dawn Star Hotel. As a consequence of being pretty curious, Tim had found his invention: the Imagination Box. This was, basically, a gadget that created whatever the user was imagining. Things like, say, a pencil or party poppers or a self-aware, talking finger monkey named Phil. Pop the reader (a hat-type thing that downloaded your thoughts) on your noggin, picture what you want, and, bam, there it was. Tim had even used the contraption to create his own Imagination Box. Clever. Like wishing for more wishes. To date, however, he was still the only person who could successfully operate the device.

Some other stuff had happened too. There was a jetpack, some goo, a few robotic bees, the occasional explosion, and even a monster at one point. Now, though, things had simmered down and normality was the order of the day. Good old-fashioned, monotonous normality.

Elisa, who ran the hotel, was reverting to some of her old ways too. There had been a distance between Tim and her in the past, and the summer’s events had certainly brought them closer. Even though he would now refer to her as his mother if someone asked--something he never used to do, as he was adopted--she would still sometimes appear detached and hopelessly preoccupied with managing the hotel. And her partner, Chris, was just as absent as always.

Elisa’s newest focus, and therefore source of sustained stress, was the refurbishment of the Dawn Star. However, her frenzied renovations hadn’t infected Tim’s bedroom--it was just as it had always been. This really was his cave. A place that would always be his, would always--

BANG! The door swung open. Elisa waddled in backward, holding a large cardboard box with candlesticks and plates and other such clutter jutting out at wild angles.

“Tim,” she huffed, setting it down. “We’re going to put a couple of things in here while we wallpaper the top floors. I hope that’s all right.”

This was not all right. “What about all the other space in this huge building?” Tim asked.

“We can’t give up a guest room--you know we need the money.”

“I see.”

Tim was not happy with this idea, but he knew she was unlikely to change her mind. Once she had an idea in her head, Elisa was unstoppable. Although he understood she generally meant well, it still sometimes felt like the Dawn Star was her number one priority. Meaning Tim came in a close second.

“It’ll only be for a few days, and only a couple of things.” She paused in the doorway, looking back. “Is that all right?”

“You’ve kind of already started.” He pointed to the first box.

“Great, I’ll let the boys know.”

Within half an hour, Tim’s room was full. New corridors had been created by bulging boxes--carefully constructed pathways of floor. He had a narrow route to his bed, his desk, his door, and his window. Every other inch of space was occupied.

His sanctuary had become Elisa’s dumping ground.

Sandwiched in his bed, Tim didn’t sleep well--it was the last night of the Christmas vacation, and the Sunday blues kept him clinging on to the last few hours of freedom. And when the faded rays of winter sun cut a square around his curtains, his unusual alarm was activated. . . .

“Goooood morning,” Phil sang loudly, clicking along with his tiny fingers. “Young Timothy, it’s time for you to rise. Oh, such a wonderful, glorious day.”

Tim grumbled into his pillow. “What tune is that?”

“I have made it up,” the finger monkey continued to sing. “Made it up to wake, wake, waaa-aake you up.”

“No,” Tim moaned. “It has to stop.”

“Wooo-ah--we’re halfway there . . . Wooo-ah--wrestling grizzly bears.”

“This song doesn’t even make sense. I am awake.”

Phil deflated. “Are you not enjoying it?”

“It’s just . . . terrible. Deranged. Maybe even offensive.”

“Oh,” Phil said. “It was merely my heartfelt way of saying good morning.” He bowed.

“Is it really, though?” At times like this, Tim...