You can't get Something for Nothing

The First Law of Thermodynamics (Conservation) states that energy is always conserved; it cannot be created or destroyed. In essence, energy can be converted from one form into another.

Somebody had noted this on the inner cover of the small black journal I found tucked into the fork of the massive oak. I suppose I should have been more observant or considered it a clue, but the thought of peeking into someone’s artistic psyche was intriguing.

I had hoped that perhaps it was a sketchbook that some kindred spirit left behind, or maybe poetry. Maybe it’s creepy, but there was a beauty in looking into someone’s soul.

I scanned through the pages, hoping to find something more exciting or even just a name so that I could return the book. Unfortunately, the only other writing in the journal was on the first page. The rest was blank.

What do you need?

The script was long and flowery. Who even used cursive anymore? I glanced around the park, hoping to catch the person who left it, but the park was empty. The black book had a soft cover, and it was thread bound, not one of those cheap spiral ones that left frayed edges and caught on everything.

My creativity had been in a rut for a while now, and whoever had written the question had given me a fantastic prompt. What do I need? Well foremost, an idea. I jotted ‘idea’ under the question and tucked the little book into my purse. It fit perfectly.

The crisp fall air brightened my nose, and I could see my breath in front of me as I made my way down the busy street towards home. Only a minute had passed when the concept for a story hit me. It was brilliant!

Jogging the rest of the way to my apartment, I made my way up the stairs two at a time. The ancient elevator was way too slow, and I couldn’t wait one extra moment before getting my idea on paper, lest it slipped away. Fumbling with my keys, I fit the right one into the door, slamming it shut quickly, and sat down at the small coffee table in the living room.

I had already pushed aside my laptop the other night to make room for dinner, and I ignored the empty container that had held last night’s takeout. Grabbing a pencil, I pulled out the little black book and opened it to the second page.

Being an old-fashioned sort of girl, I did all my first drafts on paper. There was something special about the weight of a pencil in my hand. The smell of freshly sharpened wood and graphite stimulated my brain like nothing else.

As I held the book open, I noticed the space under ‘What do you need?’ was empty. I could have sworn I had written ‘ an idea.’ No matter, I had planned to erase it, anyway. Not writing it in the first place just saved me the step.

I scribbled out a quick sentence to open my story: “I wish I could return to the place of my childhood. That cozy little summer house in the Catskills where everything had been right in the world.”

It didn’t sound quite right. The opening sentence had to grab the reader, draw them in. I’m not sure this would cut it. My eyelids were heavy, and I put my head down. May as well rest my eyes for a moment while I pondered a better opener.

The loud buzz of my phone woke me. I shook off the grogginess and answered the call. It was going to be my mom. She was the only one that ever called me. Everyone else I knew texted, like ordinary people.

“Ellie,” she said, excitement clear in her voice.

“Ya, it’s me, Ma,” I answered, head still swimming with sleepiness.

“It’s your Great Aunt Evelyn. She is dead,” she whispered eagerly.

I was a bit confused at my mother’s tone. “Ma, why are you excited that someone is dead.”

She paused, “Oh, I sound that way, don’t I. No, sweetie, I’m not excited she is dead, but I haven’t heard from her in years. She left you her house, that one up in the Catskills.”

Something was off. I had just been thinking about that little house. In fact, I had written about it for my story. I glanced at the page in the small black notebook where I had crafted my opening. There was nothing there.

“Oh?” I replied, my voice shaky. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” my mom replied. “Well, maybe a tiny one. There is the matter of a little tax lien on it. Just take care of that, and the place is yours, free and clear!”

I scoffed. There was always a catch. “How much is the tax lien?”

“Oh baby, it’s just a smidge under twenty thousand,” she giggled uncomfortably.

A sigh escaped my lips, “I don’t suppose you have twenty thousand dollars lying around?”

My mother’s voice erupted with laughter, “No, of course not. But, I’m sure you can get some sort of loan.”

I grunted. I couldn’t afford that kind of payment, and my mom knew it. “Yeah,” I replied. “I suppose I can. Look, I gotta go, mom. Just bring me the paperwork, and I’ll see what I can manage.”

“I will,” she said brightly and ended the call.

It was a guarantee that if I figured out how to make this work, she would need a place to stay or have some brilliant money-making scheme.

I opened the notebook, ready to continue with my story to a blank page. This time I knew I had written a sentence. I scrutinized my pencil. It was just an ordinary pencil.

Was this some sort of magic notebook that gave me whatever I wanted? It was time to test the theory. With careful neat letters, I wrote: “$20,000,” and as an afterthought, I added “and a pack of gum” then waited. Nothing happened, and the words stayed on the page, as clear as day. Perhaps it was just my overactive imagination. I hadn’t been sleeping well as of late.

But now, I wanted that gum. Rummaging through my junk drawer, I hoped to find a pack—no such luck. Although I could use a stick of gum, it relieved me. A magic notebook was frightening.

A scream sounded from outside, and I ran to my window to see what was going on. There was a young girl, probably around eight on the sidewalk, big fat tears streaming down her face.

“Hey!” I yelled from the fire escape. “Are you okay?”

The girl sniffled and looked up at me, “Billy stole my candy purse!” she wailed.

“Who is Billy?” I asked kindly.

“My Brother!” she whined.

I closed the window. I wasn’t one to get in the middle of little kid spats.

Okay. No more interruptions back to work. Turning away from the window, I made my way back to the coffee table. It was time to get writing when I noticed a paper bag next to the black journal. Had that been there before? Probably my takeout bag. I opened it carefully and glanced inside.

The blood drained from my face, and my stomach dropped. The bag contained a large stack of cash, with a little pack of Double Mint gum on top. Having written those exact words, I couldn’t dismiss this situation as a coincidence.

Had I killed my aunt? Who’s money did I have! Trying not to panic, I tossed the book and the paper bag into my purse and booked it out the door. Nobody should have this kind of power.

As I rushed back to the park, I could feel eyes everywhere, as if they could see deep into my soul, weighing and judging me. I tossed the paper bag into the first mail collection bin I passed and continued to the park to the giant oak.

Pulling out the book, I added a note just under the law of thermodynamics. This means you don’t get something for nothing. Without a second thought, I tucked the book back into the tree and walked away, making sure not to look back.