The Mysterious Solution - Part 1

Good Morning FFFs,
Welcome to September. It is hot! When Dad and I were coming home last night about 9:25, the temperature was 91 degrees! But, next week is supposed to be in the 80s! Yay! Fall is really coming. I love fall. I think it is my favorite season. I've always loved the colors, the coolness, the crunch of leaves, curling up with a blanket and a good book, and I could go on and on, but you get the picture.:)


Life has been busy since I posted last Friday. We came home from my grandparents' and have been busy since. Tuesday we did things we do on Thursday, and Thursday we had a meeting that we usually have on Tuesday! So, I'm mixed up. But at least I'm posting.


I haven't gotten lots of writing in, partly because I've been busy, but partly because I couldn't seem to get my brain to work. However, I did manage to write something. I wrote a story. My dad gave me the plot for this one since a friend wanted me to write a certain kind of story, but I wasn't in the mood yet. This was rather fun to write because I don't write this kind usually.:)
And now that I'm aroused your curiosity, I'll let you read part one.:)

The Mysterious Solution

by

Rebekah M.

In a little town in Russia, there lived an odd, and if the reports are to be credited, rather eccentric man. For many years he had been a professor in a nearby university and had written and published many a novel, none of which hadsold more than a hundred copies. However, it was not his writing which caused the whispers among the village folks, it was the strange rumors going around about his experiments.
Some people said he locked himself in his house for days at a time and wouldn’t answer the door. Others reported lights on in an upper room late into the night. In the market place the women talked together in low tones.
“Have you seen Prof Stovkewetsky?” asked one woman selling vegetables.
“Not for several days,” replied another behind her stand of potatoes.
“He came to my stand last week and bought all my red flowers. He would only take red,” chimed in a third mysteriously.
“And I heard,” a fourth spoke up as she joined the group with her market basket on her arm, “that several large packages have arrived for him from America.”
“You don’t say!”
“I wonder what he is about.”
“Is he writing another novel?” A sixth person, drawn by the low toned conversation had drawn near and added her question.
The second woman replied, “If he is, then why such secrecy and why did he buy all my red flowers?”
“My house is just across the road from his and things have been very mysterious.” And the speaker looked as though she could tell things of great interest if she so chose.

By himself, away from gossiping, wondering, speculating tongues, Professor Stovkewetsky was very busy in his laboratory on the second floor of his house. He was muttering half aloud as he carefully strained a strange looking mixture into a pan and began to heat it on his little stove. “Heat over low temperatures. Add Q plus ten spoonfuls of X. Stir the onions in cold water while the Q and X amalgamates. Cover R3G with . . .” So, muttering and murmuring, he shuffled here and there mixing, heating, stirring.
He had been at work for weeks, months even, trying to find the special formula which would make him world famous. With no one did he share his idea for fear they would find the correct mixture before he did, and if they did, well, his dreams would perish. The very thought of such a thing happening caused Professor Stovkewetsky to sigh and place a hand over his stomach while a look of dejection crept across his usually placid face.
Having retired from teaching, Professor Stovkewetsky or Prof Stofkey as his students called him behind his back, was now able to devote his entire time to his work. Days passed as the professor labored tirelessly day after day and often far into the nights. At last he was ready for the experiment.
Nearly giddy with excitement, Professor Stovkewetsky cleared a place on a table where he placed a large, square, glass dish. Stringing up some twine across the room, and getting a dozen sheets of plain paper out, he was ready. After donning glasses, a clean white frock, a face mask and gloves, he ever so carefully poured a clear mixture into the glass pan. It was only enough to cover the bottom of the dish about a quarter of an inch, but the professor smiled behind his mask. Then, with fingers which shook with excitement, he placed one sheet of paper into the liquid.
Watching the paper as it absorbed the moisture was a fascinating pocess which required all of Prof Stovkey’s attention. At just the right moment, with extreme care, the paper was removed, held dripping over the pan for exactly thirty seconds and then hung from the twine to dry while another paper was placed in the mixture. Each of the twelve pieces of paper received the same careful attention and treatment.
Taking off his gloves and face mask, though he left his glasses on, Professor Stovkewetsky sniffed.
“I don’t smell a thing. Maybe I have hit on it at last! But I must wait until the paper is dry before I can really test it.” So saying, he left the room, carefully shutting and locking the door behind him, and went downstairs to eat whatever he could find in the house.
He had not been a successful cook in his younger years, so now he ate everything raw or burned. “When I am rich and famous,” he would say to himself, “I’ll hire some good cook to work for me.” And he would sigh and place his hand over his stomach again.
It wasn’t until late the next night that the professor again opened the door to his laboratory and entered. This time he wore no glasses.

Come back next week for the conclusion of the story.

Any questions so far?