Westwood.

Rain pelted the station's windows. The glass on the walls were filthy, I realized,  now that the rain drops plowing across the sparkling exterior highlighted the dirt. Small handprints and unknown smudges polluted the image to the outside. As I was staring quite aimlessly out of the station window a large, ungainly man came into focus beyond the rain spattered pane. He waved frantically at me and I felt my heart sink. He was unfamiliar, he was out of breath and seemed in a rush and he was most importantly waving a small white envelope. 

He was a man with a case, and no detective. 

A man with money and a case. I felt a tad bit happier and rose to greet him as he came sputtering into the station. 

"Bad spot of rain to be out in sir," I said in an effort to be kind, helping him out of his great coat. There was no tag- it was handmade, custom and very well taken care of by the way the water ran right off of the collar. 

"I know," he replied, disgruntled and wobbling with suppressed annoyance. As I got a chance to look him over I saw that his many chins were illustriously decorated with a necktie from Westwood and a series of expensive pins lined his lapel. One was obviously military but the rest were undefinable to me. 

"Do you happen to be the detective I was directed to find at platform eight?"

I was about to respond by stating the obvious but I decided against it and responded simply,

"Yes. I see you are in some trouble then..."

"I am in a vast amount of trouble. As you can see, I am not at my best but there is plenty of reason for that, as you will know. Come, let's get a cuppa somewhere and have a chat, shall we?" He seemed intelligent enough and although I knew he was marvelously rich, I didn't doubt that he had a good heart. 

P.S Sorry for the weird outline on this text, I couldn't remove it for some reason. Next post will be normal!

Asa.

This is a scene from a recent story I'm exploring. I felt like it created a mood so it's officially part of my description/setting experiment now. Enjoy!

...I decided in a second that no one could know Asa had been here. It was strange enough having my friend over when he was awkwardly invited. I had to hide him but how I was going to do that between the three seconds flat it took Maggie to thump downstairs, and ask grumpily what was for breakfast, was an impossible magic trick. I gave up.  Right on cue with my thought train, my little sister came downstairs, black hair an absolute mess and still clumsy with sleep; As soon as she saw Asa’s imposing frame leaning against the sink, she bolted straight back up stairs. She was gone so fast I could practically still see her when I blinked.

“She’s so annoying.” I said suddenly.

“It’s alright.”

“No, it’s weird. My little sister having a crush on anyone is fine but not you. She’s weird.”

“Whatever man. I guess I'll get outa your hair- I just came to tell you Heather was away. Oh, and also, that I got a text from my mom.”

I felt my jaw drop.

“Your mom?”

“Mhm.”

“When, exactly?”

“Around three A.M last night. Well, technically this mor-”

“What’d she say?”

Asa frowned because I had cut him off and took out his lighter again.

“She said she needed money. Fast.” Lighter on. He avoided looking at anything within a two foot radius of my body.

“Annnd are you gonna ask her where she is?” Lighter off. On again.

“Maybe.” Asa seemed insecure- undecided.

“She seemed scared. Very shorthand, very cryptic. Not that I’m used to her texting me all the time or something but…you know.” Asa gave me a long, hard look. I swallowed some cereal and found I wasn’t actually hungry anymore.

“What’s she doing texting you? She hasn’t seen you since-”

“Stop!” Asa’s eyes bulged slightly. He grabbed his glass out of the sink again and filled it.

“Let’s go to the park,” I said quietly, “We won’t have to worry about Maggie hearing anything there.” Asa dipped his head in agreement, swallowed, and dumped the glass out. 

--dh

Boy/Boxes

He guys! Long time no see. Sorry, I've been busy. 

Here's another section for my 'atmosphere' experiment. Once again, this was originally a song story piece, a story inspired by music, in this particular case the song What's A Boy to Do by Matt Kearney- all lyrics are his if I directly quoted any and this is meant purely as a literary experiment. This one is a bit different than the last one I think I posted, the song itself follows the story of a young man through the major mile stones of his life but I didn't write all of them. These are primarily the first three mentioned in the song, correct me if I'm wrong, this is something from the archives! I hope you enjoy!

 Boxes were stacked everywhere. Most of them were only half filled with trash and trinkets that didn't mean quite enough to be kept through a move. But they were all coming along, the furniture was draped with white sheets and dust. There were only two pieces covered in bubble wrap to be loaded into a truck and taken along.

Before the big white truck came to cart everything away, a boy walked into the open house. He was tall for his seven years, dark haired and his intense blue eyes scanned house with a mixture of sorrow and rebelling anger.

“Alex! Alex, come here.” A woman crashed through the house holding a paper in her hand and a cell phone in the other.

“Here, honey, now let me explain...”

The boy, Alex, resisted her tender touch.

“No- mom, I get it. You couldn't pay again, it's fine.”

“Alex?” His mother looked confused.

“Where's my bag?”

“In the closet, as usual. I'm really sorry.”

“I told you, it's okay.”

Alex dragged his feet to the little closet at the back of the house. He opened the creaky door to discover a grungy backpack filled with practical joke trinkets, a few pocket knives, some school books he wasn't supposed to have.

Alex looked over everything and kicked the backpack over, letting the insides spill out and make a mess on the closet floor.

“Alex! He's here, c'mon, we've got to go!”

“'K mom!” Seizing the pocket knives, the boy rushed out of the door and tumbled into the white van with his mother. Their life was packed up and ready to go. The van was their one way ticket, bound for Saint Louis...

The school yard was nearly empty. Only Rags and his gang hung around, unawares of Alex crouched in the shadows of the garbage bins. Rags yelled about something. Alex looked down, a rough piece of rubble took up the palm of his rough hand. The gang shifted around, Alex knew they would start playing their game soon. Rags would take out a gun, the gang would inspect it and voice their approval. Rags would tuck the weapon away and they'd leave. Alex looked around cautiously before he boldly stuck his head around the dumpster and aimed.

The rock skittered across the pavement after striking Hands on the wrist. He howled with rage. Rags' hand was up in a split second, gun cradled between his thumb and pointer finger, cocked and loaded. Alex knew though, Rags didn't have money for more than one or two shots. Bullets weren't cheap if the teenager could've even found a dealer. The yard echoed with the rock's reverberating contact with the stone. Rags relaxed and put the gun to rest as well.

The gang left swiftly and Alex was left alone in the yard, idly holding his old pocket knife which was hinged open and tucked into his sleeve. He pulled it out and put it away. He left, kicking rocks in front of him in a dispirited manner. Time to go home.

“Hey Alex, coming over tonight? We're having a little extra celebration for Selena's promotion too. What'd you say?”

“No, I'm busy.” Alex said reluctantly, taking a swig at the glass in his hand. He was dressed up. He hadn't dressed up since middle school, for the orchestra concert. He grimaced at the thought, remembering his mother fussing over his hair beforehand. His mother had loved fussing. He downed the last half of his drink and put it harshly down on the bar. He left the club, eyes stinging with buzzy tears.

Paper Cut.

The silence roared in her ears, making it difficult to concentrate, as if she hadn’t even been trying to before. Throwing her pencil down she frowned and shut her text book with a satisfying slam!

                “Casey…” Her mother’s warning floated up the stairs, making her eardrums pound with impatience.

                “Alright mom, I get it!” She called back, the irritability swirling through her thoughts increased to point of anger and petty, irrational explosions. She glanced at her clock and felt a surge of furry sweep through her, it was already 8:30 and she wasn’t nearly half done with her work. Cursing quietly she rubbed her temples, gathering up all of her last reserves of faith, and plunged her nose back into ‘Advanced Math with Physics’. 

Two hours later, she awoke with her face hurting. There was a stinging paper cut along her cheek from lying on top of the rim of her textbook. Wincing as she felt the small rivet she rushed to the bathroom, cupping her hands under her chin to catch the droplet of blood that oozed off her face.

                “Did you do that on purpose?” A small voice made Casey’s head snap suddenly around to the bathtub behind her.

                “Oh, Jordan, it’s you. Why are you still up so late?” Casey recalled the time before she’d ran to the restroom, 10:34.

                “I couldn’t sleep, or try to anyway…” The little boy’s big eyes were somber with pain, his hands knotted and unknotted themselves in anxiety. Casey eyed the plastic tube that spiraled to his nose from the grey case on the bathroom tiles.

                “Its alright...” Casey tried to sound sympathetic, but she found it hard to when she was still burning with the hatred she’d come to know towards her toughest subject.

                “You didn’t answer me. Did you cut yourself?” Jordan’s face was so earnest Casey felt compelled to tell him the truth right away, instead of estranging herself behind a veil of unfriendly mystery.

                “No… No Jordan, I wouldn’t do that…” She sat next to him and as she held his head to her troubled heart, wondered if what she said was true.

                “Okay, I was just worried about you that’s all…” Jordan heaved shaky sigh and then snuggled closer to his big sister, feeling safe and warm just before he dropped off into a fitful sleep…  

Exit.

This is actually something I wrote ages and ages ago and I think it fits into the idea of 'mood writing' but basically it's a song song story I wrote for the U2 song, Exit. All lyrics belong to U2, this is not meant to be plagiaristic, I was simply very inspired by the song and the genius of its 'murkiness' if that makes any sense in the way it was written and how the music creates such a mood... 

A bulky silhouette made its way up the steep hill. 

The man could not go to sleep due to a pounding headache and a creaking conscience, he'd decided to climb above the city, try to escape his hellish nightmares. The setting sun was blazing blood red, a dog barked in the little suburban city below the hill, the sound was eerie, like a human crying over a broken heart. 

The warm summer breeze turned into a howl dueting the dog's mournful cries. Suddenly the wind died, almost as quickly as it had come; leaving the solitary shadow of a lonely, loveless man standing on the rise; watching the sun go to sleep… The shiny pinpricks of stars started to appear, the sky like a massive black board with nails puncturing it every now and then.  The man was about to leave when he stopped in his tracks, plunged his hand in his pants pocket and seemed to wait. His heart pounding in his ears he could hear a little voice, his injured conscience, above the roar… 

You can't do it… you haven't got the nerve to pull it off, you know you could never take a life…

His sweating hand that had caressed the hard steel of a small, and loaded pistol, slithered out of his pocket, and behind his back. Out of danger. 

Work.

 Hello again, readers!

This post is mainly for the purpose of communicating a general feel for a location within a story through tons of description and whatever dialogue seems to fit. I plan to do a few more like this, separating the place and characters from the story or whatever they're originally a part of and look at the paragraph or more by itself. This is just to practice communicating whatever vibe I'm trying to create for the reader to experience in my future projects. Enjoy!

  I woke up with a bad feeling hanging over me like a foreboding storm cloud. I swung myself from the low couch and stretched with my hands behind my head. The mirror directly across from me sat on the dresser top in a disapproving way. I grunted, ignored my scruffy reflection and went to the mini fridge on the floor near the wall. A half-finished beer was on the top of the machine, left-over from having Sophie over. I got a soda out and cracked it open over the sink. I took a swig and feeling electrified, hurried to shower and dress before the clock chimed 8:00. As I pulled an undershirt on, the phone came alive and I was suddenly nervous.

     “Hello?”

     “Alexander, where the h*** are you?”

     “Oh, thank God, it’s just you!”

     “What? Who’d you wanta hear?”

     “Well… never mind. What’s up Tip?’

     “I need you to get your smarta**down here ASAP. Jamie’s gonna have a fit if your late again. God, Alexander, how hard do you try to be late for the night shift?”

     “I don’t, you know that, Tip.” I smiled briefly and then told him I was on my way. Picking up my jacket from the floor where I’d dropped it the night before, I hurried away after sticking the ‘Please Clean’ sign on the handle. Not like the cleaning crew would see it this late though. I dodged the delivery trucks and loaded taxis leaving the circle in front of the complex. I prefer to grab the train to work to keep from paying overtime for traffic delays in a taxi. Besides, there were interesting people in the train, despite the general grimy aura the green lights and faded upholstery gave off... 

 “All passengers bound for Applegate, this is your stop. Please be careful of the gap between the train and the platform.”

 I felt the wheels churn to a back jolting stop and then the automatic doors opened. I jogged out and turned left, continuing along the train track until the stairs rose up from the platform and lead up into the crisp night air. I enjoyed the stroll from the train to work.

 It was safe enough and quite pleasant, at least during autumn, when the trees from the border of the park shivered with droplets and made the sentimental sound of a dog shaking or a street sweeper passing. I went ahead down Kenneth Street and finally reached the back door to the building. The building I worked at was not so beautiful or sentimental or generally a nice place to be. And it wasn’t because I worked with two of the world’s most foul-mouthed bosses either so…the Klein Brothers & Co. building was just downright unpleasant.

As always, constructive and instructive criticism is welcome!

dh

Highly Suspect.

“I’m here to investigate the murder of your brother, Mr. Michael Brooke.” Edith Brook's reaction was less than devastated, at least, compared to her sister’s. She lit a cigarette nonchalantly and replied,

“To be honest, he had it coming to him, not by my hand, but…” She tapped her cigarette off into a tray, avoiding my eyes completely,

“Goodwin, Miles Goodwin was so angry with my conniving little brother for interfering with his marriage, I could’ve told you months ago, something was bound to happen between them sooner or later.” She was now hidden by a cloud of smoke…

“Would you happen to be able to think on another person who could’ve done this?” I tried to sound sympathetic, I apparently overdid it and she clammed up on me and my bothersome questions immediately.

I’ve never been ushered out of an interview with so much cold force.

I climbed into my car once again and after checking Goodwin’s list, headed back toward Kingsley Ave. to call on a Miss. Helena Darning, a past girlfriend of Michael Brooke’s with a bruised heart; he had apparently forgotten her altogether sometimes and more recently, sent her warnings not to come to him again for attention.  How Goodwin could’ve known about how intricate a relationship Brooke had with this woman, baffled me, but by the time I got to number 34 Finchley House, I understood that it was not so hard to get details out of Miss. Darning…

“Oh, yes, my darling Michael, he was so…” she stoked her little arrogant chin in reflection,

“So devilishly deceitful and unfeeling, he pushed me once, he pushed me” she then went on to prod me roughly in the chest and continued,

“Just like that. He was a bad boy, and now I know I should’ve never gone out with him. Anyway, you came for more contacts related to this tragedy, I suppose,” she looked at me with a wide eyed expression that confused me so badly for a second, that I stumbled over my words.

“I-I, uh, yes, how- you’ve  been through this before?”

“Oh no, I just have an overwhelming passion for those mysteries on TV nowadays… and now I know how realistic they are!” she giggled with a squeaky tone that suddenly set my teeth on edge.  

She wrote down two contacts in my notepad and signed with a poorly drawn heart and her own name, as if she were autographing something for me. I thanked her, but carefully, making sure not make myself sound too ridiculous and then hastened to my vehicle before she could draw me back with her ever flowing conversation. 

The Woman.

It was exactly 4:43 p.m one Monday evening in town. A young man stood at a corner, waiting in the drizzle for one of the very few cabs to pick him up. Not many were out today; most were temporarily employed by the town hall to cart officials and their wives back and forth from their lodgings and back to the courtroom.  A case was being closed today, and Gavin would be late, darned cabs. Because of his dyslexic tendencies, Gavin Room never bothered with a car. He traveled solely by cab and by foot. He seriously considered just starting the three mile walk across town, when suddenly a bright yellow cab showed up and the driver gestured for him to get in quickly. Gavin yanked the door open and muttered “Took you long enough” before sliding in the back seat. A woman was sitting on the far side, her elegant jawline turned to the window, and her eyes were fixed on the rain traveling across the glass.

“You heading to court too?” Gavin said, directing the thought toward the woman.

“Yes. Which side of the case are you on?”

“I’m a witness.  A late one at that” It was Gavin’s turn to look out of the glass; he watched the tall buildings blur. His eyes lingered on an old woman walking her small, soaked dog along the dirty sidewalk. Dedicated, he thought with a twitch of a smile.

“You were there?” The woman on the other side of the cab said suddenly.

“Yes. I saw Gladys Kent. Gruesome” The young man never looked at the woman.

“I’d think so. This case has been dragging along long enough, I’m glad it’s about to be over.”

“I want to see justice dealt to the right side and that should be enough for anyone” Gavin said, broodingly.

“You’re right, of course.” The woman replied and she finally turned away from the blue tinted glass to carry the conversation on more politely. But they did not have much more time to talk, much to the relief of the strained man in the right back seat. The cab pulled around a few corners, stopped at an inactive four way stop, and then proceeded to the tall, boring building of grey concrete that was the courtroom of Kendall.

“Ah, we’re finally here.” The woman in red commented as the cab stopped suddenly at the wide stair case of the town hall. The woman handed Gavin a large black umbrella.

“If you would be so kind, sir” she said gracefully, nodding for him to get out first. Gavin obeyed and they walked up the stairs together...

You Don't Know Me.

This poem came to me randomly and I realized I hadn't posted on this blog for absolutely ages so here you go- read and enjoy however you like.

Still as a shadow

Glowing in the dark, a lingering smile

Shifting feet and hushed cries

Dark, dark prison of thoughtfulness

And care

Eyes wandering, hearts longing

No relief

No help or sign, never mind

Passersby stops and stares

You don’t know me.

Light fades, blackness even

Disintegrates before our eyes

Nothing will last but you

Cover it up besides,

No one can know the obvious

No one can see your emotions

That you wear out on your sleeve

The question is why

But why ask when you know the answer?

There are few and passive answers to it

Why

Still stands as the unchanging

In a changing mass of matter

Or does it matter?

The Boy With the Glasses.

This is an excerpt from one of my stories about an editor and a book cafe...

BEEP... BEEP..BEEPBEEPBEEP

Tired. I was still tired as I scrambled off the bed and walked clumsily to my bathroom. I showered before my brain was fully functioning resulting in putting soap in my hair and using conditioner as shaving cream. I dressed fast and swept out of the house, eager to get to the book store.

“Right on time. Did you keep the card?”

“Yes. So, you're name is Sadie. I'm sorry I had not thought to tell you my own, David Copper,” I offered my hand over the table and she took it readily.

“What do you read here?”

“Everything. Everything except romance novels and the current rave of the critics if I can.”

“Current? I guess you wouldn't be a fan of Gallant then?”

“Ah, yes well, I have heard much about that book... And the author as well, a teenager isn't she?”

“Oh yes, I find her story really inspiring. The book is half decent if you wanted an unofficial review.”

I cocked an eyebrow. Half-decent wasn't nearly good enough to invest time in. I pretended to take interest for conversation's sake.

“And what is half decent for you?”

“A nice story with well said logic and a bit of a cliffhanger ending. That about describes it.”

“Really? I would say that's a book well on it's way to 'okay'. If the story is really well thought out and put up the right way.”

“Well, I didn't say Gallant was all of those traits. Well said logic yes, but no fantastic ending and not really well put together.”

“Hmm” I reconsidered the previous thought. “Sounds like you have the makings of an editor in you.”

“Do I?” She asked, eyes bright as she leaned in excitedly.

“Yes. Well, you'd need to know some official guidelines but...”

“Are you an editor?”

“Yes.” I was a little taken aback. She was bright, very analytical.

“I thought so. You look like a book person. Tell me, what are you working on now?” She said, sounding genuinely interested.

“A romance novel. Not a great story, no logic at all, and, a very anticlimactic ending.” She smirked as though reprimanding me for doing what I had just pronounced not worth my time. 

“Could I check it out sometime?”

“You mean if it ever gets published?” I was heavily doubtful that it would.

“No. In manuscript form, right now.”

I paused, cappuccino steaming up my glasses.

“I can't, sorry. It's a legality thing.”

“That's okay. Maybe I'll pick it up when it's in store.”

I checked the time on the cafe clock. I had to go soon.

“Yes, maybe.”

“Hey, maybe we could go over to Bailey's, they have a lot of new releases I want you to see.”

“Sure, as long as we aren't there for too long. I have a meeting with the author of the bad romance novel.”

The street was filled with a strong wind that buffeted trash and small children down the sidewalks. We walked a few blocks before Sadie turned suddenly into a corner shop. The sign said closed but the door was open.

“Sadie? Is that you? Have you brought the troublemaker again?” A man's voice called to us as soon as the bells settled.

“No, Ian's in class today. I brought Mr. Copper, my new friend from the cafe.”

“The boy with the glasses?” An elderly man stepped down from a platform behind the front desk.

“I know you!” He exclaimed and I pulled a blank. I frowned instead.

“I always wonder what you're thinking sitting there in the window, what are you here for?”

“I'm here for Sadie, she wanted to show me something here.” I reminded her and she tugged my sleeve over to a small shelf near the front of the store. The shelf had all new books on it, I could tell by the binding and shiny enamel. Most of the books were fiction, action or romance. There was one however, a murder mystery, that looked good.

“I thought you might like...” Sadie's hand reached for an action novel and I found my hand crossing her's to get the mystery.

“Sorry...”

“You like that?”

“Yeah, I like suspense.” We stood for a second, each holding the selected book with determined eyes.

“Is that why you're an editor?” Sadie said, shoulders slouching a little,

“Is it for the thrill of a new author to read every month?” Sadie's tone was friendly again and I seemed to relax a little.

“Maybe, I never thought of the job that way before.” I smiled.

“Do you want to buy?” The old man asked.

“What is it?”

“I'll give it to you for fifteen, it's actually twenty since it's a new release but, you're one of Sadie's friends so...”

“How about ten? If the book is worth twenty I'll give you ten bucks when I'm done.”

“Deal. He's a bright one!” The old man shook my hand while looking at Sadie with a knowing eye.

Library Trip.

Ralph crept into the dark library. It was nighttime and his parents were fast asleep. The boy was curious as to that stack of paper, sitting innocently on top of the book tower near the arm chair. Carrying a three forked candelabra the boy weaved his way through the shelves. He put the light down on the table near the leather chair and grabbed as much parchment as he could in both fists. The manuscript was moderately sized and crinkly with dryness. Scooting himself securely onto the chair, Ralph began to read. The parchment was musty smelling and the handwriting upon it looked odd, like his mother had tried disguising her own hand. Ralph wondered why she would do such a thing. He liked her scrawly hand as it was.

“You know, young sir, you’re breaking curfew.” A voice said near to the boy’s ears. He jumped about a foot. Gripping the arm of the chair he called out,

“Who’s there?”

“Just me, young master.” Ralph cast his gaze around the room, looking for his father or someone he could match the voice to. As the conversation went on however the boy realized it was not his dad.

“Who are you if you’re not one of my family?”

“I am part of your family.” The voice said, sounding desperate and a bit crestfallen.

“You are? I’ve never met you before. Or seen you.”

“Do you have to? Family is family.” Now the voice was disdainful.

“Yes but if I’ve never spoken to you before now, then how could we possibly be so closely related?”

“Tsk-tsk…” The voice reprimanded. “You ought to know appearances make no difference, Ralph son of Eric.”

“What’s my dad have to do with it? Unless he’s your dad too.”

“He is not my dad. He is my master.”

There was a silence.

“Are you a beast too?” Ralph said into the darkness with as much innocence as he could muster.

“No. I am harmless really. Well, unless you aggravate me.”

“Oh!”

“Don’t worry you haven’t upset me as of yet, young master!”

“Please just tell me who you are… besides my family?”

“I am also you’re light.”

“My light?”

“Yes.”

“What does that mean? Show me what you mean!”

Silence blanketed the room once more. It was a dismissive silence, the kind that leaves you with a souring feeling in the back of your mind.  Ralph pushed with his hands to shunt himself deeper into the protection of the leather arms of the chair. The three pronged candelabra flickered in the corner of his eye. Ralph carefully picked up the manuscript and resumed his reading… 

The Sweet Shop.

 Rain coursed down the shop's window, blurring the images behind the single pane glass. Two people could be seen from the street, busily stacking books into boxes and adding cupcake trays to the pile. The man in the window finally got around to taking down the 'open' sign and the woman in the window looked on with excitement.

A passerby may wonder why the hassle on a foggy, rainy day. Everyone else was a home, watching movies and comfort eating. Why now to pack up your shop and leave? The simple answer was that the couple in the bakehouse window couldn't wait to leave. They couldn't wait to shut the old shop down and move as far away as possible from that place...

Ten years earlier...

“Hansel! Hansel get in here at once and don't go out again unless I say.” The old woman of Lark Street barked from her position under the shop door's awning. A little boy, not much older than twelve looked up from his marbles. It had rained the previous day and the cobblestones were still dark with moisture. The boy, Hansel, gathered up his toys and obediently came back to the shop. Although the enticing smell of cookies and cakes wafted up and down the street for blocks, the boy didn't want to go back. He hated the stuffy atmosphere and he certainly did not like the sweets. He dashed past the old woman, and past the little girl with the broom, and up to the second floor. The second floor was an escape from the smell of sugar. The second floor was Hansel's real home.

Cook books, fairytales, ten-cent-novels and an old atlas stood on the two facing bookshelves. The space between these tall guards was relatively crammed with junk. Two beds stood directly beneath the shelves. Gretel had always been afraid of the bookcase tipping over as she slept, and crushing her. It was a comfort to share a bed with Hansel, but even he wasn't sure of the steadfastness of the shelves either. The opposite bed belonged to the old woman. It was filthy and flea ridden and contaminated what had the potential of being a livable room. Gretel was diligent in cleaning their side of the room and left the other to rot and be foul. Such was the dislike of the old woman that her grandchildren were happy to leave her in her squalor and they delighted in it.

Hansel set his bag of marbles delicately on the nearest shelf and flopped, bored out of his wits, onto the bed. There were no pillows. Not even a sheet; but there were four, holey and ancient blankets spread out. Hansel was glad for the four blankets, even if one part of him was always cold because of a hole the size of a large book.

“HANSEL! I need you!” The old woman's shriek startled the young man into a sitting position and he sighed with loathing as soon as it died off. He heard the scrape of the oven brush and the whimpering of the young girl. Gretel. Sweet, lovely Gretel. The thought of his sister's timidness being taken advantage of was infuriating to the boy, and so he leapt up and raced down into the kitchen, determined to stick up for her. The boy's idea was gallant, but he had rushed too late. Gretel was kneeling on the floor, a half eaten cupcake in her hand and the scrubbing brush in the other. Tears dropped into the dry, spongey cake, and Gretel's hand was shaking. Hansel took a deep breath and said,

“Stop! Stoppit you old witch! Can't you see she's going to be sick?”

“HUSH! You impudent, ungrateful child!” Hansel, like any self-respecting little boy, was affronted by the use of the word 'child'. All the same, he cringed under the authority of his evil grandmother. She stepped toward him and pushed her discolored, hairy face close to him. He grimaced.

SLAP!

“Get cleaning, I need to have those ovens sparkling for this next batch of cookies. Understand?”

“Yes grandma.” Hansel grated out from behind clenched teeth. Gretel nodded in silence and crushed the cupcake wrapper in her fist. Her doe like eyes hardened with helplessness and Hansel felt tears of anger surge into his eyes. The kitchen was just one bad memory for the children of the sweet shop.

“Someday, Gretel, we'll own this place. And then we'll sell, and we can be free of this forever.” Hansel said as he helped his frail sister to her feet.