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. 

Peter Pan- An epilogue

Sorry it's taken so long to post, I finally got some inspiration for a piece. Enjoy!

Salty. Cold. Lonesome. The sea shore was always like this for Peter.

Peter was tired; he rubbed his eyes and scraped the grime from under his fingernails. They had grown since he'd last looked at them. No wonder there was so much dirt on his palm.

The young man gazed off the cliff and watched as the skeletal remains of the Neverbird floated by on it's decaying nest. The nest was in fact the old sailor's hat that Peter had swapped a long, long time ago for the original nest, to save himself. He still remembered that night.

Peter hated remembering. It was a relentless sign of getting older. Usually, for us here at home, forgetting is the surest sign of aging. But for Peter, he had never remembered anything before now. At least he hadn't tried, and because of change he could remember the little girl he had adventured with ages ago. He could sometimes smell her hair on the wind that brushed in from the east.

Wendy.

Wendy had been wonderful, she had been the best mother to him; no other girl could've been better. He had truly enjoyed himself those days, sitting in their burrow of a house and listening to tales of Cinderella and pirates. The pirates Wendy made up weren't half as exciting as the real ones, here on Neverland, but they had been so entertaining all the same.

Peter turned away from gazing into the north and gave up finding the star. He walked home, noticing how unusually long his legs were.

Peter's home was now a proper little shack. He had grown so much taller now that he could build himself a roof and even a tiny cellar. He kept stollen rum from the pirates under his floorboards and used the basement for his winter sleeping place. Neverland was bitterly cold this time of year and he quickly tucked himself away through the hatch in the floor. The burrow beneath his shack was cozy enough. Peter loved to watch Tink flit about in her lantern room. Tink was getting older too, her hair was longer and her face looked worried. She loved Peter dearly, but he never acknowledged it. He knew it, he just didn't want it. It was dangerous thinking like that, he knew, but Tink was just a reminder of how different he'd become.

“Tink?”

Yes?

“Tink, do you think I'll ever find the north star again?”

You silly ass! Of course you will.

“Tink! Don't talk so. How should I find the north star then? Suggestions?”

Why don't you consult the fountain?

There was a silence as Peter pondered the idea. He hadn't been to the Fountain of Youth in so long he almost doubted- no. The fountain must be in Neverland still. He knew it, deep inside that he had to save himself. And Tink.

“To the Fountain of Youth it is, dearest!” And with that, Peter Pan bundled up and then sweeping Tink along, went up the hatch and out into the cold night air. He strode confidently through the Piccaninny territory, across the bridge over the Strangling Straight, and reached the base of the Mountain of Discovery. He was going on a new adventure, and this time, he swore he would forget everything he ever did. 

--dh

Upcoming Series

Hi all!
I wanted to let you know the plan for the next posts I will hopefully be putting up within the next few months. I wanted to start a mini series of classic fairy tales but retellings with new perspectives, themes and details I've been wanting to publish. I hope I can cover at least a few of the below:
-Snow White
-Jack and the Beanstalk
-Peter Pan
-Hansel and Gretel
If you have any other nursery rhymes, favorite fairy tales or myths you'd like to see re-imagined just comment below and I'll check the out! 
dh

Ink

So... this blog is called Ink and Imagination, right? Well, here's some ink :D

Actually, to be more accurate, it's eyeliner and some imagination:D
Post soon!

Wanderlust.

Freda gazed out of the row home window, feeling oddly lonely. She knew she shouldn't  she was married now and had two little trouble makers of her own. But then, there it was again! Something stirred inside her that made her feel restless, a bit like her old self, back when being a wife let alone a mother had been a far off goal, not a noisy reality. She loved her family, her husband with his wry humor and imaginative ingenuity. But she knew the symptoms of the wanderlust that had plagued her since she was a girl.

            “Mommy, I think, I think Carson’s playin’ on the computer again…” Jack sidled up to his daydreaming mother, taking her hand and touching its long fingers with his own small, moist hand. Freda smiled and walked into the kitchen where the laptop was set up to find her oldest son pounding away at the keys with his fists.

            “Carson! Hey, hey, don’t bang on it like that, that’ll break it and then Daddy will get mad,” she explained, tugging Carson's strong little body away from the computer. But she still felt... detached. She sighed absentmindedly and Jack tugged her jeans to be held. Glancing at the clock Freda frowned with anxiety. She hadn’t realized the time was so late, hardly enough time to prepare a good dinner now. There was always pasta, her lazy mind offered, and she sighed again in resignation to a dull supper. Her husband however was not dulled a bit by the news of dinner when he returned from work, coat flung over his shoulder and his bag bursting with files and pens as usual. She loved the way he looked when he crouched down to capture one of his sons in his arms.  But she was snapped back to her daydreams of being with him on their wild honeymoon when they had toured the world and eaten strange foods and adventured in the mountains. But that was then. And this, their family life, was now.

            “Hey, could you imagine us taking the boys on a trip?” She asked when dinner was almost done and she was just unbuckling Jack from his booster. James’ brown eyes laughed when he looked up from his plate.

            “Yeah, I could also imagine us being millionaires in Holland. Why do you ask?”

Lexie chewed her lip sheepishly.

            “I just… I wanna travel again, James. I wanna see more of the world, more of the continents and just enjoy adventuring again. Carson stopped playing with the crumbs on the table. Jack could tell the subject was an important one too. James sat back and looked thoughtful.

            “Like… where?” 

dh