Alcatraz Versus the Evil Librarians

after the most infamous prison in U.S. history?
    On my thirteenth birthday, I received a second confirmation that my parents were indeed cruel people. That was the day when I unexpected received in the mail the only inheritance they left me.
    It was a bag of sand.
    I stood at the door, looking down at the package in my hands, frowning as the postman drove away. The package looked old – its string ties were frayed, and its brown paper packaging was worn and faded. Inside the package, I found a box containing a simple note.
    Alcatraz,
    Happy thirteenth birthday!
    Here is your inheritance, as promised.
    Love, Mom and Dad
    Underneath the note, I found the bag of sand. It was small, perhaps the size of a fist, and was filled with ordinary brown beach sand.
    Now, my first inclination was to think that the package was a joke. You probably would have thought the same. One thing, however, made me pause. I set the box down, then smoothed out it wrinkled packaging paper.
    One edge of the paper was covered with wild scribbles a little like those made by a person trying to get the ink in a pen to flow. On the front there was writing. It looked old and faded – almost illegible in places – and yet it accurately spelled out me address. An address I’d been living at for only eight months.
    Impossible, I thought.
    Then I went inside my house and set the kitchen on fire.
    Now, I warned you that I wasn’t a good person. Those who knew me when I was young would never have believed that one day I would be known as a hero. Heroic just didn’t apply to me. Nor did people use words like nice or even friendly to describe me. They might have used the work clever , though I suspect that devious may have been more correct. Destructive was another common one that I heard. But I didn’t care for it. (It wasn’t actually all that accurate.)
    No, people never said good things about me. Good people don’t burn down kitchens.
    Still holding the strange package, I wandered toward my foster parents’ kitchen, lost in thought. It was a very nice kitchen, modern looking with white wallpaper and lots of shiny chrome appliances. Anyone entering it would immediately notice that this was the kitchen of a person who took pride in their cooking skills.
    I set my package on the table, then moved over to the kitchen stove. If you’re a Hushlander, you would have thought I looked like a fairly normal American boy, dressed in loose jeans and a T-shirt. I’ve been told I was a handsome kid – some even said that I had an “innocent face.” I was not too tall, had dark brown hair, and was skilled at breaking things.
    Quite skilled.
    When I was very young, other kids called me a klutz. I was always breaking things – plates, cameras, chickens. It seemed inevitable that whatever I picked up, I would end up dropping, cracking, or otherwise mixing up. Not exactly the most inspiring talent a young man ever had, I know. However, I generally tried to do my best despite it.
    Just like I did this day. Still thinking about the strange package, I filled a pot with water. Next I got out a few packs of instant ramen noodles. I set them down, looking at the stove. It was a fancy gas one with real flames. My foster mother Joan wouldn’t settle for electric.
    Sometimes it was daunting, knowing how easily I could break things. This one simple curse seemed to dominate my entire life. Perhaps I shouldn’t have tried to fix dinner. Perhaps I should simply have retreated to my room. But what was I to do? Stay there all the time? Never go out because I was worried about the things I might break? Of course not.
    I reached out and turned on the gas burner.
    And, of course, the flames immediately flared up around the sides of the pan, far higher that should have been possible. I quickly tried to turn down the flames, but the knob broke off in my hand. I tried to grab the pot and take it off of the stove. But, of course, the handle broke off. I stared at the broken handle for a moment, then looked up at the flames. They flickered, catching the drapes on fire. The fire gleefully began to devour the cloth.
    Well, so much for that , I thought with a sigh, tossing the broken handle over my shoulder. I left the fire burning – once again, I feel I must remind you that I’m not a very nice person – and picked up my strange package as I walked out into the den.
    There, I pulled out the brown wrapper, flattening it against the table with one hand and looking at the stamps.