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Post by jamie brian harlow on Jan 18, 2010 4:03:14 GMT 10
 Jamie was playing a game with himself, something not unusual if you knew who he was. It was a child’s game, really, something that a normal eighteen year old wouldn’t be caught dead playing. That was just it, though; Jamie was destined to never be normal. He still lived in the world that everyone had abandoned long ago, the world where you shared crayons and animal cookies without thinking about who the person was, the world where there was no such thing as ‘keeping up appearances’. It was a thing to envy, really, as he lived the way he wanted to, without a thought of “What will someone think of this?” In a world where everyone obsessed over who was with who and doing what where and all of that, Jamie had somehow managed to retain a childlike innocence that simply refused to be beaten down. Of course, this innocence also usually managed to land him in a good deal of trouble—ask him to deliver a ‘special package’ for you, go on and do it, and he actually will. No questions asked, just a smile and a happy ‘okay’. But that doesn’t matter right now, because he’s playing a fun game—it’d be more fun if there were leaves on the ground, so he could try and not step on them as well as the cracks in the sidewalk, but he was happy with this.
He glanced up and looked at the shops around him as he took a pause, surveying his surroundings to make sure he hadn’t inadvertently stumbled into somewhere scary. Somewhere where the bad monsters lurked in the shadows, somewhere where there was no escape to the happy light. But no, he wasn’t anywhere that he would normally be afraid of, although he had managed to skip through the parts of the city that he was usually in—and had found himself in an entirely new part of town. His curiosity got the better of him and he abandoned his game, staring at the shops that he passed as he moved down the sidewalk, knowing that in just a minute one particular one would catch his full attention; it always happened. You could see the fascination in his eyes as he moved through this part of the big city, completely surprised by everything that he saw, his eyes wide and taking it all in without restraint. And then he found the one shop that he absolutely had to go in. Giving in to his curiosity, he darted inside the shop—a book shop, believe it or not.
Oh, he just couldn’t believe his good luck as he looked around him, it wasn’t just a book store, it had used books. He loved old books, loved the smell of them as well as the feeling that he was sharing the journey of a wonderful read with someone else, someone who’d been there before him. With a giddy expression on his face, he moved closer to the books, allowing his eyes to jump from one title to the other, eager to see if the book that he’d been wanting to find for a while now was here. It was an old book, which meant it wouldn’t be in any Books a Million or Barnes & Noble. Which meant that he had to look for it in stores like this one, where it would only end up on the off chance that someone who had had it before had wanted to be rid of it, and he would never understand such a desire, but he was hoping for it. And can you just imaging his reaction when he found it? It was an ancient collection of someone’s nature drawings, and he’d been looking for it for a few months now.
Well, that little boy grabbed the book off the shelf and squealed, jumping up in the air for a moment as he clutched it to his chest, thumbing through it in the next second, an eager and elated look on his face as page after page was turned. He couldn’t believe that he’d actually found it, almost thought he was dreaming; but no, it was right there and absolutely perfect. Another happy squeal left him and he hugged the book, turning side to side, unable to contain his excitement.
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Post by david thomas chester-felix on Mar 16, 2010 9:15:15 GMT 10
Even in summer, the warm golden light of outside filtered only faintly through the slats of wood that shuttered the windows of the Candlelight Bookstore. It was winter now, and the watery gray light that did penetrate the clouds in the sky failed to light the bookstore at all. Consequently, David Chester-Felix had lit his collection of candles that morning. The collection sat on his desk behind the cash register, flickering and dancing, casting distracting shadows. People had told him before that it was a bad idea to keep candles around so much paper, that in fact candles at all were probably a bad idea, but David had always loved candles and rarely bothered to take others' advice. He did have electric lighting, and it was turned on, but it was dim due to the large amount of old paper that didn't need any more fading.
David had spent the morning on a chair at his desk, laptop open in front of him, scouring the internet for books. As much as he loved literature, he was rather bored at this point and quite sick of trying to find old editions of nineteenth century British novels that owners were simply not willing to give up. No customers had wandered into his eclectic shop that day, something which happened frequently enough. You would not find any shiny, newly bound young adult reading crazes in this store. David collected what he was interested in, which meant old poetry anthologies, treatises on long antiquated knowledge, penny dreadful novels, and a few books of acknowledged great literature. One of his personal favorites was a print copy of The Complete Poetical Works and Letters of John Keats published in 1899. It was, unfortunately, not the sort of item that would attract much popular attention to his quaint, comfortable little bookshop. Even people interested in Keats could easily buy more recent anthologies of his work. David was fine with keeping his books for himself, but he had learned fairly early on that starving was rather unpleasant, and, consequently, a good deal of his collection was for sale. Still, he required customers.
When the door creaked open, David was deeply absorbed in reading a book of Robert Frost's poetry, and only half his mind registered the flash of cold air and the sound of footsteps. Whoever the visitor was, in Dave’s experience, visitors to his bookstore liked to be left alone, just to take in the volumes that filled his shelves. He was sure this visitor was no exception, so he did not finish the poem hastily, nor did he put his book down and look behind him until he heard a squeal of delight. That was rather unusual. Most of Dave’s customers were stuffy academics, the type who eruditely discussed the history and printing of any given old volume. This sounded like someone more youthful. He put down his book and turned, studying the slim form outlined by the dim light. Dave had been right—this one was a teenager, and an unusual one at that.
Somehow, when Dave's golden-brown eyes fell on the blond boy, he could not look away. He didn't see anything odd—two eyes, two ears, a nose, a mouth--but something about this customer made Dave stare in a way that he did not frequently stare. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind, and he saw the book the boy had picked up. It only made the situation more strange, for it was an old botany textbook, drawn and written by an amateur naturalist and artist in nineteenth century Britain. Was this kid a quirky college student? He hardly looked the part—he looked quite young indeed, and his childish demeanor suggested a high school student at best. Unable to think of a better course of action, Dave spoke up. "Can I help you?"
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word count ** 650
tag ** you're it! (jamie<3)
notes ** ...
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