Disclaimer: I don't own Finding Neverland, nor do I own J. M. Barrie, who was a respectable author. Hmpf.
Curled up on a bench, I sat, happily, indulging myself in a wonderful play-adapted book. The title, Peter Pan, was emblazoned on the leatherbound front in dazzling gold letters, and within these pages I found happiness. I adjusted my everyday gown, to get more comfortable. The park bench wasn't all that comfortable, but it was far better than having to sit at home where all the noise and bustle was.
I clutched the book tightly in my fingers, my eyes focused on the page as I further read the exciting passage before me. Oh no, Tinkerbell drank the –
"What is that book you're reading?" inquired a soft voice in front of me, a soft, but manly voice, rather low, and yet it was light and airy with the British accent. I looked up, startled; before me was a man, a gentle-man, apparently, for his clothes were very nice and elegant. He wore a hat, pulled down low over his eyes so that I could not discern his face, and in his left hand he clutched a bright tan-brown cane with a round, gold head on top of it. The way in which he dressed told me he was shy, and from that I couldn't tell if he was truly interested in the book I was reading or if he was just being a bit nosy.
"Excuse me…?" I asked, not quite sure I'd heard him entirely.
He repeated his question, his voice still soft. "I simply inquired as to which book you are reading, miss." He tilted his head to the side. "No need for alarm," he added, as an afterthought. I blinked, and held up the leatherbound book which I had been so deeply immersed in mere minutes ago.
"Peter Pan," I mumbled; "sir," I added, not wanting to appear disrespectful. "But tell me, sir; why did it appear that I was alarmed?" I watched as he lowered himself onto the bench beside me. The bench groaned in protest against our weight combined. He appeared deep in thought for a moment.
"You just seemed rather startled, is all," he said finally; and from this point he set his cane down on the ground beside him and pulled his hat off. I stared at him for a long moment, then jumped off the bench with a gasp.
"You're James Barrie!" I exclaimed, excitedly; then lowered my voice respectfully. "Sorry," I mumbled, casting my eyes toward the paved walkway. "I didn't mean to shout. You surprised me, is all, sir."
He nodded. "I get that a lot."
Clutching the book to my chest, I smiled warmly. "Please, sir… tell me what Neverland is like." He gave a small sigh. "I'm sorry," I said hurriedly. "It's just that, well, I've never seen the play; and description is just not… enough…" I left my sentence drift and examined him. He seemed tired, worn, as if he hadn't eaten or slept in days. He had deep purple bags under his eyes, and around his mouth were the sorrowful lines of mourning and loss.
I sat down beside him again, for he didn't seem like to answer; his eyes were closed, and for a moment I thought maybe he was dead; at the very least, possibly asleep. But no, he was still awake, for he opened his eyes and kindly looked at me.
"To see Neverland…" he said, sitting up slightly, a small, thin, weak smile playing across his lips, "you just have to look around you." I had been looking down at the ground up until this time, and when he said this my head snapped up.
Almost not daring to believe it, I looked around me; and felt my mouth fall into disappointment. I saw no Neverland… I saw the park. I saw squirrles and birds and trees; I saw bright, well cared for grass that stretched endlessly before my eyes; I saw people on picnics, sitting and happily eating and chatting and playing with loved ones; I saw couples strolling over the grass, holding hands and stealing kisses under the great Oak trees; I saw kids, running and shouting and laughing, flying kites, skipping stones in the nearby pond, letting their imagination swell and run free as they played Cops and Robbers or Cowboys and Indians on the hill. I saw the park. Not Neverland.
"Sir, I don't… I don't understand," I managed finally. He was staring at me most peculiarly, his head tilted to the side, as if waiting for me to exclaim how beautiful his made-up world was; but I just couldn't see it. "I… I don't see Neverland…"
His eyes fell to the ground and he slumped back against the bench. "Pray tell, how old are you, miss?"
I sat a little straighter. "I am twenty-two, sir. And respectfully, sir." I was proud of my age, for at twenty-two a woman was respected. I smiled lightly.
"Ah… that explains it…" he muttered, his eyes searching me and my face.
"Explains what, sir?" I asked, trying to keep my indignant tone in hiding. It didn't work very well. He sighed, closed his eyes, and sat there for a long time. I stared at him for a long time, then looked out over the park.
"You're old enough that I'm sure you don't use your imagination very much anymore. Neverland… you just have to believe…" He opened his eyes and looked at me again. I had a puzzled look spread over my face. His face showed sadness.
"Imagining is for children, Mr. Barrie, sir," I mumbled, sighing. "And for writers. I'm not a writer, nor am I a child anymore, sir."
"You use your imagination every day," he said softly, staring directly into my eyes. I shuddered, for some odd reason, and turned my eyes to the pavement. "You just never realize it. But why don't you realize it…?" he pondered, looking thoughtful.
I stood up and gently set my book down. I drew in a deep, shaky breath, hardly believing about what I was going to do. Softly, gently, I began to sing.
"When I get a notion to swim me an oceon,
Or climb me a mountain,
Or find me a bear
I find such a notion and have such devotion that soon I find myself
Choosing my fare.
But ho-ow do I do it, I don't know, I just don't have any
I just do it…"
He stared at me curiously, as my last note drifted off. Then –
"When being a playwrite,
One must have insight,
But always remember that life is so big.
Losing a loved one is extreme-ly no fun,
But somehow I always, always pull through.
But ho-ow do I do it, I don't know, I just don't have any
I just do it."
I smiled brightly as he finished his verse. He stood up, and offered me a hand. "Would the fair lady favor me a dance?" he asked, and smiled thinly again.
"Of course, dear sir," I replied, taking his hand as he placed an arm on my waist. I put one hand on his shoulder and we began to twirl, and together our voices sang those two verses again.
We danced like that for a long time to imaginary music, and suddenly I found that my imagination had run wild. I could see myself and Mr. Barrie dancing grandly in an enormous grand hall, filled with the most amazing chandeliers.
Finally the music died away, and I found we had stopped dancing, although we were still in each other's embrace. A voice began whispering in my ear. "All you have to do is believe…"
My eyes still closed, I murmured, "I… I do believe… I believe, Mr. Barrie…"
He pulled away, and when I opened my eyes I couldn't help but let out a startled gasp. Mr. Barrie was gone. But so was the park. In it's place was the most beautiful place I could have ever imagined.
Flowers of all shapes and sizes and colores and hues met my eyes. Trees with enormous apples and other types of fruit I couldn't name dotted my vision. Grass of all colours swept before my feet, and an ocean not to far away caused my eyes to become misty. Mermaids sat and played and laughed along the seashore, and out farther, dolphins leapt gracefully from the water to and fro. Animals played cheerfully and in peace. Faeries whirled by my head in an array of colors; red, blue, silver, gold, green, purple, even black colored faeries teased my hair this way and that. I let a hand drift up to my mouth in wonder as tears filled my eyes, making my vision swim.
"I'm sorry I ever doubted you, Mr. Barrie…" I whispered, sure that he couldn't hear me but whispering it for the world to hear. "It's beautiful. Absolutely… beautiful…"
I felt warm hands rest upon my shoulders, like a loving father's welcoming you home. It warmed me up as though I had been cold, cold to the world of my imagination and Mr. Barrie's. A voice whispered in my ear once more:
"Aye… that it is…"
"That it is."
A/N: Well… there you go. The song is crap and the story is badly-written, but I wanted to get it down before I lost it completely. I had a third verse for the song but I lost it… grr… but anyway… yeah… I just thought I'd write it. Please tell me what you think. And yes… I did just recently watch Finding Neverland, and as soon as the credits began to roll I felt my imagination being to swell in my chest. Felt like I was going to burst, really. I get that often. Haha.
Reviewers: You are allowed to give me flames, yes you are. I know most of you will hate it. It's dumb. It really is. Just don't… yell at me. Yeesh. In fact, give me pointers, if I need them.