Waldo Baron awakes one morning to find his inventor parents have turned their house into a flying machine, and they intend to enter into a race across the country in the hopes of winning the $500 prize. His parents’ plans go astray when they are kidnapped by Rose Blackwood, the sister of notorious villain Benedict Blackwood, who intends to use the prize money to free her brother from prison. But Rose is not what she seems to be, and Waldo finds himself becoming friends with their kindly kidnapper as they race across the country in the magnificent flying Baron estate!
Waldo Baron awakes one morning to find his inventor parents have turned their house into a flying machine, and they intend to enter into a race across the country in the hopes of winning the $500 prize. His parents’ plans go astray when they are kidnapped by Rose Blackwood, the sister of notorious villain Benedict Blackwood, who intends to use the prize money to free her brother from prison. But Rose is not what she seems to be, and Waldo finds himself becoming friends with their kindly kidnapper as they race across the country in the magnificent flying Baron estate!
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Overview
Waldo Baron awakes one morning to find his inventor parents have turned their house into a flying machine, and they intend to enter into a race across the country in the hopes of winning the $500 prize. His parents’ plans go astray when they are kidnapped by Rose Blackwood, the sister of notorious villain Benedict Blackwood, who intends to use the prize money to free her brother from prison. But Rose is not what she seems to be, and Waldo finds himself becoming friends with their kindly kidnapper as they race across the country in the magnificent flying Baron estate!
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781944995188 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Chicago Review Press, Incorporated |
| Publication date: | 05/16/2017 |
| Series: | The Bizarre Baron Inventions , #1 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 250 |
| Lexile: | 750L (what's this?) |
| File size: | 10 MB |
| Age Range: | 9 - 12 Years |
About the Author
Eric Bower is the author of The Bizarre Baron Inventions series. He was born in Denville, New Jersey, an event of which he has little recollection, yet the people who were there have repeatedly assured him that it happened. He currently lives in Pasadena, California. His favorite type of pasta is cavatappi, his favorite movie is The Palm Beach Story, and he is the proud recipient of a "Beanology Degree" from Jelly Belly University in Fairfield, California. His wife and family have told him that the degree is nothing to be proud of, since "It's not a real degree. You know that . . . Right?" and "Eric, they literally give them to everyone who visits the Jelly Belly factory," but he knows that they're all just jealous.
Read an Excerpt
The Magnificent Flying Baron Estate
By Eric Bower
Amberjack Publishing
Copyright © 2017 Eric BowerAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-944995-13-3
CHAPTER 1
Real Life is Stranger Than a Talking Squirrel Dream
January 25th, 1891
I had the talking squirrel dream again that night.
And for those of you wondering, yes, it is exactly what it sounds like. In my dream, I'm given a pet squirrel that can talk. I have that dream a lot. I can't really say why. Maybe it's because I'm lonely. Maybe it's because I secretly wish that I had some magic in my life. Or maybe it's because I have a terrible habit of eating beans and hot chilies on fry bread with hard cheese before I go to bed at night. I don't know.
Actually, now that I think about it, it's probably because of the cheese.
Anyway.
In my dream, my Aunt Dorcas comes bursting into my room while I'm reading in my bed.
"Hello there, my little Waldo!" she sings in her high and wobbly voice, knowing full well that I hate my first name more than I hate pickled pig's feet for supper. "Your parents have a little gift for you!"
I roll my eyes as I bury myself underneath my cowboy novel.
"Don't you want to guess what it is?" she sings.
"No."
"Guess anyway!" she sings again.
"Go away."
"I'm going to keep singing until you show some interest in the surprise! Lalalalaaaaaa!! Dooo dee doo dooooo!! Woah woah weee womp woooo!"
Listening to my aunt sing is like being kicked in the head by a bull over and over again. Actually, no, it's worse. The kick would at least knock you unconscious. With Aunt Dorcas, you're forced to listen to her dreadful voice until you either run away or stuff your ears with mashed potatoes.
"This is torture, Aunt Dorcas!"
"Womp womp beee boooooo!" she continues to sing.
I can't take it anymore.
"Okay, fine, you win. Please stop," I say. "What is it? What's the surprise?"
"It's a present from your parents for your birthday!" she sings.
She presents me with a little cage that has a sheet draped over it. I slowly get out of bed and put my cowboy novel on my nightstand. I pull the sheet away, and I see a squirrel sitting in the cage. It's a little, grey squirrel with a puffy tail. Aside from the fact that it's wearing tiny, oval-shaped reading glasses and a miniature white coat, it looks like a perfectly ordinary squirrel.
"My parents got me a squirrel for my birthday," I say, shaking my head in disbelief. "Three years ago, I asked them for a dog for my birthday, and they gave me a plant. Two years ago, I asked for a bow and arrow set, and so they gave me new shoes. This year, I asked for a book, and they gave me a squirrel. They always give me the opposite of what I ask for."
"How is a book the opposite of a squirrel?" Aunt Dorcas asks.
"I don't know. It just is."
Here is where the dream gets weird ...
"Happy birthday, W.B.," says the squirrel in my father's voice.
I'm so shocked that the squirrel has spoken that I drop its cage onto the floor.
"Ouch!" the squirrel cries, rubbing its little backside. "W.B., please be more careful! My bones are much more delicate now that I have a squirrel body."
"P?" I gasp. "Is that really you?"
I call my parents P and M instead of Pa and Ma. And they call me W.B. instead of Waldo Baron. We all sort of prefer it that way. The only person who goes by their regular name is Aunt Dorcas, which is odd, because she has the worst name out of all of us.
My father, the squirrel, begins to explain to me how he and my mother have just completed another successful experiment which allowed them to place their minds into the bodies of other creatures.
"Don't you see what this means?" my little squirrel-father says, hopping up and down with excitement. "It means if you've ever wanted to fly, you can place your mind into the body of a bird! If you want to swim under the sea, you can place your mind into the body of a fish! This is the greatest scientific breakthrough in history! In history! I'm so excited!"
"Would you like an acorn?" I ask with a grin.
"OH MY GOODNESS, I WOULD LOVE AN ACORN! GIVE ME A — wait, stop that!" my father says, blushing beneath his squirrel beard. "You're not taking this seriously, W.B. That's your biggest problem. You don't take science seriously."
He's probably right. But he's also a squirrel, which makes it rather hard to take him seriously.
"If you could put your mind into the body of any animal in the world, why did you choose a squirrel?" I ask. "I thought you hated squirrels."
"A squirrel is the only animal I could catch. And I don't hate them," my father replies defensively, twitching his little nose and stroking his puffy tail. "I just hate when they get into the garage and chew on my experiments. You used to do the same thing when you were an infant. You always chewed and drooled on everything. At times you seemed more like a camel than a baby."
"Will you be able to put your mind back into your body?" I ask. "Actually ... where is your body?"
It's rather creepy to think of my father's body sitting around his work garage without a mind in it.
"Oh, your mother is watching it," he tells me. "She has to. Otherwise it might get into trouble."
"How can your body get into trouble without a mind in it?"
"It does have a mind in it," my squirrel father explains. "I didn't get rid of the squirrel's brain. That would be cruel. So I simply switched it with mine. My body currently has a squirrel brain in it. Now that I've shown you what your mother and I have been working on, I'm going to go switch back. Would you please let me out of my cage?"
I open the cage and my swift, little squirrel-father bolts out of it and heads towards the door. The moment he reaches it, he bumps into an excited, little prairie dog. The prairie dog is also wearing little spectacles and a coat.
"Isn't this fantastic!" says the prairie dog in my mother's voice. "I feel stronger and quicker than I have in years! I think I can even do a cartwheel. Watch me a do a cartwheel!"
"Sharon!" my squirrel father squeaks. "I told you to wait until I was human again before switching your brain with the prairie dog!"
Which is quite possibly the weirdest sentence a son will ever hear his father say.
"I couldn't wait!" my prairie dog mother says, spinning around and hunching over in her furry little body. "It was too exciting!"
"But ... Sharon," my squirrel father says desperately, "don't you see what this means?"
Before my squirrel father can explain what it means, we hear a terrible thundering noise.
The bodies of P and M — now with the brains of a terrified squirrel and a baffled prairie dog — come tearing down the hall. They are squeaking and shrieking and looking for the nearest tree to climb.
And that's when I always wake up.
I wake up in a cold sweat, usually with a cowboy novel on my chest and a bellyache from my late night snack. I'm terrified, but after a few deep breaths, I look around my bedroom, and I realize that everything is alright. My parents are not squirrels or prairie dogs. Their weird, scientific-inventor brains are still in their weird, scientific-inventor bodies. My Aunt Dorcas is still annoying and sings all the time, but that's alright. I suppose.
Everything is normal, or, at least as normal as it can be here at the Baron Estate, which is the name of our home. The Baron Estate is located just a few miles outside of the town of Pitchfork, which is in the heart of Arizona Territory. Pitchfork is one of the wilder towns in the new American frontier, which I like. It's also one of the hottest, which I don't like. I suppose you could say I'm sort of a heavyset kid, so I don't do very well in the heat.
When I wake up in the morning, I like to look out the window at the quiet desert that surrounds our home and dream about the heroic gunfights that are happening over in Pitchfork. There's a legendary sheriff there by the name of Sheriff Hoyt Graham, who is said to be one of the bravest men in the world. He singlehandedly captured a gang of fifty armed bandits, led by the dastardly bank robber, Benedict Blackwood. No one had ever been able to capture Benedict Blackwood before, but Sheriff Hoyt Graham had made it look easy. There have been hundreds of short stories and novels written about Sheriff Graham's adventures, and I've read each and every one of them. Even though it makes me sound like a bad person, there are times when I wish I was his kid instead of M and P's. At least Sheriff Graham makes sense to me.
* * *
On that particular morning, I was feeling excited because I suddenly remembered what was happening in Pitchfork later that day. Sheriff Hoyt Graham and his deputies were going to put on a show for everyone in town with wild stunts and rope and horse tricks. The sheriff was also going to tell the crowd about some of his greatest adventures, including the ones that haven't been written in books yet. I'd been looking forward to seeing him for months.
But on that very morning, when I looked out my bedroom window, I did not see the quiet desert or the hills that lead to Pitchfork. In fact, I saw nothing but blue. Blue and more blue, surrounding a lot of bluish blue with bluey blueness. I rubbed my eyes and pinched myself to make sure that I wasn't still dreaming.
I stuck my head all the way out the window, looked down, and gasped.
I finally saw the desert. It was hundreds and hundreds of feet below us. The Baron Estate was floating in the sky like a hot air balloon.
"W.B.!" I heard M call from downstairs. "Come here! We've got a wonderful surprise for you!"
I pinched myself again. Nope. Still awake.
It was just one of those times in life when real life is stranger than a talking squirrel dream.
CHAPTER 2Magnus Kicked Aunt Dorcas in the Knee
After recovering from the dizzying sight of the earth being several hundred feet below me, I rushed out of my bedroom and made my way down the staircase. When I reached the living room, I found M, P, and Aunt Dorcas sitting together on the sofa. M was comforting my aunt, who was weeping hysterically. P was unfolding a large blueprint of our home, with a lot of extra squiggles, letters, and numbers written on it.
"What's happening?" I cried. "The house is flying!"
"No, it isn't," my father said, without looking up from his blueprint.
I went to the front door and opened it. I looked down and almost threw up. Our house was now so high up in the sky that I could barely see through the clouds to the ground.
"P ... I'm pretty sure that we're flying," I said.
"You're wrong."
He went back to his plans, making a note on the blueprint with his fountain pen.
Sometimes he can be a very frustrating man.
I walked over to him and tapped him on the shoulder. He looked up at me.
"Yes?" he asked.
"May I please borrow your pen, P?" I asked.
"Yes, of course."
He handed me the pen. Without a word, I turned and threw it out the open door.
"We are flying," I repeated to my father. "That is why your pen is now falling hundreds and hundreds of feet back to earth. Why are we flying?"
"Oh dear, I hope that pen doesn't hit anyone," M said.
"Goodness!" Aunt Dorcas blubbered.
"We're not flying," P repeated, sounding a bit annoyed. "We're floating. I've found a way to make our house float, but I'm still trying to figure out a way to control its direction and speed. Since I can't move the house forward or steer it, I hardly think it's fair to describe what the house is doing as flying. A hot air balloon flies because it can be controlled. But a regular balloon, without any controls, just floats. Understand?"
I did understand, but I wished my father wouldn't bother with unnecessary explanations. He knew what I meant.
"Alright ... why are we floating?" I asked, trying very hard to stay calm.
My father opened his mouth to answer me ... and then stopped. His eyes grew wide from behind his spectacles as he brought his face closer to the blueprint.
"I say ...," he murmured to himself, lifting his glasses and making a funny face. "What if I ... yes, yes ... maybe ... xylophone? No ... probably ... yes ... but no ... if I ... yes! Marmosets? Perhaps ... kind of ... but I can't ... Rutabaga! Yes, I can ... will I though? Hasenpfeffer ... hmmmm."
He mashed his index finger and thumb together and began to rub them against the blueprint as though he had forgotten that he was no longer holding his pen. My mother took a pencil from her coat pocket and put it between P's thumb and index finger. He continued writing, this time actually making marks on the blueprint, and then he stopped.
"Hmmm," P said as he stroked his chin, smearing the charcoal from the pencil onto his face. "Sharon? Please take a look at this. I might have just fixed our problem."
"Of course, dear," my mother said, still patting her weeping sister on the back. "W.B.? Would you please take over for me while I help your father?"
I sighed.
I went to the sofa and sat down. As M released Aunt Dorcas, my aunt wrapped her arms around me instead. Someone always had to comfort Aunt Dorcas. She was as fragile as an egg and sort of shaped like one as well.
Come to think of it, she usually smelled like eggs too. Was it possible for a person to be part egg?
"We're flying," Aunt Dorcas cried into my ear in a runny voice. "I hate heights. I hate being up in the air. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it! I hate flying."
"We're not flying," I told her. "We're floating. Apparently there's a big difference."
"I think you've figured it out!" M said to P, giving him a huge hug. "The steam thrusters that we built just needed to be angled. We can do this! We can fly the Baron Estate!"
They both jumped into the air and did the silly dance that they do when they're happy. Have you ever had a bee fly into your trousers? If so, you've probably done my parents' happy dance. I hope they've never done it in public. It's ridiculously embarrassing.
"That's great," I said, unlatching myself from my soft boiled aunt, "but why are you doing this? And when can we go back down to the ground? I have school tomorrow, and I don't think the teacher will believe me if I tell her that I had to miss class because my house was floating."
"Not floating," my father corrected with a huge smile on his face. "Flying! I've done it! I've discovered how to make the Baron Estate fly! They said it couldn't be done! Hah! Well, I've proven them wrong yet again! Hah! Hah ha! Hahahahaha!"
My father says this often — that he has proven "them" wrong — before bursting into maniacal laughter. But I don't think anyone really knows what he means by it. I've asked him before who "they" are, and why "they" always doubt him, but he's never been able to give me an answer. Frankly, I don't think he knows either. I also don't know why he laughs maniacally after saying it. Sometimes it seems like my father's cheese has slipped off his cracker, if you know what I mean. He's one grape short of a fruit salad, if you catch my drift. His corn hasn't been cut off the cob. His potato was peeled with a dull spoon. Someone let his onion boil for a little too long.
In other words, there's something a little bit wrong with him.
You see, most of the other children I know have parents who are farmers or tailors or butchers or bakers. I'm the only one I know with parents who are inventors. They design and build funny, little gadgets and gizmos. Our house is their playground. The Baron Estate looks like something out of a wild dream, with steaming beakers over open flames in the kitchen, and glass tubes filled with brightly-colored, bubbling liquids flowing from one room to the next, and hundreds of metallic devices with coils and wires and strings and gears that do crazy things like fry an egg, shine your shoes, sweep the floor, and part your hair when you press a single button.
When I wake up in the morning and I see a mechanical butler offering me toast and eggs, or when I walk out the door to see my father traveling across our property on a horseless carriage, or my mother wearing a pair of mechanical arms that have made her strong enough to rip a large tree out of the ground ... I'm no longer surprised. It's just what everyday life is like here at the Baron Estate. I've only had one kid from school come over to the house, and he ran away screaming. He told all the other kids that I lived inside a crazy windup clock and that my parents were from the planet Mars.
He might be right about my parents — I've actually had the same thought before — but it still wasn't a particularly nice thing to say.
It's not easy having parents who are so different. For one thing, it makes all the other children think I'm different as well, which is why I don't have any friends.
"M?" I asked. "What's P talking about?"
M reached into the pocket of her work coat and handed me a folded up piece of paper. I unfolded it and saw that it was cut out of the science magazine that my parents always buy, Inventor's Quarterly: The Publication for Serious Inventors. At the top of the paper was a drawing of a hot air balloon with a large dollar sign on it. It was an advertisement for some sort of a contest.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Magnificent Flying Baron Estate by Eric Bower. Copyright © 2017 Eric Bower. Excerpted by permission of Amberjack Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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