Any Right Minded Stephen King Fan
Orginally written, very very quickly, for musemuggers 25/05/2004
Prompt #37 - a picture of a dragon
Tracy St James inherited a shop. I could describe it if I wanted to, but there's really no need. I expect you already know this shop.
In little picturesque towns in England, forty minutes drive from London, this little shop blends in with the oxymoronic tasteful faux Tudor cottages. It has barrows of succulent fruit and vegetables, plump as the prices, parked outside. The owner, a middle-aged divorcee named Sheila, doesn't care about the names of her customers, but she always makes sure there are enough copies of the Financial Times to go around.
In small American towns, with wide grey streets to accommodate wide red trucks, it's called the general store. The wizened old couple that run the shop when you were a child know the name of everyone in town, attend church, ahem, religiously and entertain themselves in the evening with the aid of a ball gag and cat-o-nine-tails.
You know this shop; it's easy to spot. I moulds itself to the character of wherever it's located and the bread is always triple any reasonable price.
At the end of Alderney Crook's only street, just around the little bend, Green's family store melted into its surroundings. Two it's left and right was an old television shop - closed long ago - with wire grills protecting what was left of it's broken windows and a chip shop with windows so greasy the casual observer might have thought that it had been done out in sepia toned glass. Across the road a second-hand shop displayed it's wares out on the little forecourt, although a long length of strong rope tethered most of the stock to the grills on the windows.
Tracy's shop didn't look even a little bit out of place.
The first night she stayed there she slept in her Aunt May's old bed. It had looked romantic and old fashioned when she had first seen it (such things do, to the kind of person that changes her name to St James). However, as she lay in bed it struck her that Aunt May had probably taken her last breath in this bed. She slept on the sofa after that. Tracy would have been upset had someone told her that Aunt May had sat on that sofa, dead and undiscovered, for three days before she was found.
On the second day Tracy began to clean. She didn't make quick progress; Aunt May had lived in the little flat over the shop for forty years and hadn't believed in throwing things away. Tracy's romantic soul knew, just knew, that somewhere amongst all this junk some wonderful treasure was hiding. Alas, after three days of sorting, no love letters or picture bearing lockets were found in an old oak jewellery box. There wasn't even an old oak jewellery box. It wasn't right, Tracy reflected as she scrubbed grease from the kitchen floor, Aunt May and Alderney Crook were the kind of things that would make any right minded Stephen King fan cry.
Still, after a week of back breaking labour, Tracy sat at the little table in the kitchen drinking tea from a chipped china cup and surveyed the old and study furnishings around her. It wasn't all bad, she thought, I have a place to be; some people never get that much.
Next Tracy tackled the shop. It was an old fashioned shop; a long counter separated the customers from the temptation to steal the stock and old yellowed copies of knitting magazines were nailed to the runner above the main counter. The warm sweaty stench that leech out of every corner refused to budge until Tracy found a lump of what may once have been ham lying under one of the counters.
Tracy had dreams of running a little used bookshop. She'd spent three whole days once in such little shops in Hay-On-Wye and thought it the perfect little business for a little country town. Tracy had a thing about little. She had adjusted her expectations somewhat since arriving; Alderney Crook had changed a lot since she was girl. The woman in the Post Office had blamed it on the out-of-town superstore and foreign people. Tracy smiled politely at her, was outraged in private and, in some deep dark space in her heart, agreed wholeheartedly. Tracy had snuck a look at the young girl also serving in the Post office for support, but she averted her eyes quickly at the sight of the girl's black eye and split lip.
Finally Tracy came to the cellar. The rotted wooden door sported a lock that was surprisingly sturdy and Tracy had to remove the screws from the hinges to get inside. The gloom inside was so solid you could chew on it. The small hand torch barely cut a slice through it and Tracy had to descent the steps by feel. She took one step too many at the foot of the stairs and stumbled, biting her tongue. She put her hand on the wall for support and stood still for a few moments, simply breathing.
After a while she gave herself a little shake and stood up as straight as she could. There must be a light switch around her somewhere, she thought and set off to find it. The gloom began to melt away a little as her eyes became used to the dark. The torch light illuminated a few feet in front her with a smoke swirled beam of light. She followed it forward hugging the walls of the cellar.
The torch eventually landed on a row of shelving. Good sturdy shelved of riveted steel that looked almost new. Boxes lined the lower shelves, most of them were unmarked and sealed. Tracy assumed they were shop stock although if it was the barren state of the shop puzzled her. Oh well, she thought, maybe Aunt May had been ill.
Tracy lifted the torch to the top shelves and gasped.
Rows of jars glistened through their thin dust layers in the torchlight. Three shelves full, sometimes three deep, jars of different sizes and shapes lined the walls. Tracy swung her torch around and caught glimmers of more jars lining the walls of the cellar.
Curious she reached up and lifted a jar, slightly larger than her hand, and held it under the torchlight. Inside a small creature, as pale as the life forms that inhabit the depths of the ocean, the light seemed to shine right through it illuminating the tiny bones inside it. The creatures head reminded her a little of a sea horse and the claws and tail reminded her of a…a…no, that was ridiculous; there was no such thing.
Breathing heavily not wanted to think about the jar in her hand, Tracy searched the wall frantically for a light switch. Finally she located the cord near the cellar door and she tugged; only half hoping that it worked.
Light bathed the room. Tracy refused to look at the shelving lining the walls. Instead she focused on the small desk in the centre of the room. She approached it and sat at the little metal chair. The only item on the desk was a large leather bound book. Tracy put the jar carefully on the table and switched of the torch. She opened the book using only the tips of her fingers and scanned the page.
On the inner cover previous owners had scrawled their names as the book had been passed from owner to owner. Some of the names were in ink so ancient and blurred that she couldn't make them out. That last name, in neat copperplate handwriting, was May green.
Tracy flicked the page over, her eyes scanned the title page but her brain didn't register their meaning until the forth time that she read the words.
The Beaftf of Albion.
A drangone hunterf guide
Behind her came the sound of scraping as something swished across the flagstone floor.
Prompt #37 - a picture of a dragon
Tracy St James inherited a shop. I could describe it if I wanted to, but there's really no need. I expect you already know this shop.
In little picturesque towns in England, forty minutes drive from London, this little shop blends in with the oxymoronic tasteful faux Tudor cottages. It has barrows of succulent fruit and vegetables, plump as the prices, parked outside. The owner, a middle-aged divorcee named Sheila, doesn't care about the names of her customers, but she always makes sure there are enough copies of the Financial Times to go around.
In small American towns, with wide grey streets to accommodate wide red trucks, it's called the general store. The wizened old couple that run the shop when you were a child know the name of everyone in town, attend church, ahem, religiously and entertain themselves in the evening with the aid of a ball gag and cat-o-nine-tails.
You know this shop; it's easy to spot. I moulds itself to the character of wherever it's located and the bread is always triple any reasonable price.
At the end of Alderney Crook's only street, just around the little bend, Green's family store melted into its surroundings. Two it's left and right was an old television shop - closed long ago - with wire grills protecting what was left of it's broken windows and a chip shop with windows so greasy the casual observer might have thought that it had been done out in sepia toned glass. Across the road a second-hand shop displayed it's wares out on the little forecourt, although a long length of strong rope tethered most of the stock to the grills on the windows.
Tracy's shop didn't look even a little bit out of place.
The first night she stayed there she slept in her Aunt May's old bed. It had looked romantic and old fashioned when she had first seen it (such things do, to the kind of person that changes her name to St James). However, as she lay in bed it struck her that Aunt May had probably taken her last breath in this bed. She slept on the sofa after that. Tracy would have been upset had someone told her that Aunt May had sat on that sofa, dead and undiscovered, for three days before she was found.
On the second day Tracy began to clean. She didn't make quick progress; Aunt May had lived in the little flat over the shop for forty years and hadn't believed in throwing things away. Tracy's romantic soul knew, just knew, that somewhere amongst all this junk some wonderful treasure was hiding. Alas, after three days of sorting, no love letters or picture bearing lockets were found in an old oak jewellery box. There wasn't even an old oak jewellery box. It wasn't right, Tracy reflected as she scrubbed grease from the kitchen floor, Aunt May and Alderney Crook were the kind of things that would make any right minded Stephen King fan cry.
Still, after a week of back breaking labour, Tracy sat at the little table in the kitchen drinking tea from a chipped china cup and surveyed the old and study furnishings around her. It wasn't all bad, she thought, I have a place to be; some people never get that much.
Next Tracy tackled the shop. It was an old fashioned shop; a long counter separated the customers from the temptation to steal the stock and old yellowed copies of knitting magazines were nailed to the runner above the main counter. The warm sweaty stench that leech out of every corner refused to budge until Tracy found a lump of what may once have been ham lying under one of the counters.
Tracy had dreams of running a little used bookshop. She'd spent three whole days once in such little shops in Hay-On-Wye and thought it the perfect little business for a little country town. Tracy had a thing about little. She had adjusted her expectations somewhat since arriving; Alderney Crook had changed a lot since she was girl. The woman in the Post Office had blamed it on the out-of-town superstore and foreign people. Tracy smiled politely at her, was outraged in private and, in some deep dark space in her heart, agreed wholeheartedly. Tracy had snuck a look at the young girl also serving in the Post office for support, but she averted her eyes quickly at the sight of the girl's black eye and split lip.
Finally Tracy came to the cellar. The rotted wooden door sported a lock that was surprisingly sturdy and Tracy had to remove the screws from the hinges to get inside. The gloom inside was so solid you could chew on it. The small hand torch barely cut a slice through it and Tracy had to descent the steps by feel. She took one step too many at the foot of the stairs and stumbled, biting her tongue. She put her hand on the wall for support and stood still for a few moments, simply breathing.
After a while she gave herself a little shake and stood up as straight as she could. There must be a light switch around her somewhere, she thought and set off to find it. The gloom began to melt away a little as her eyes became used to the dark. The torch light illuminated a few feet in front her with a smoke swirled beam of light. She followed it forward hugging the walls of the cellar.
The torch eventually landed on a row of shelving. Good sturdy shelved of riveted steel that looked almost new. Boxes lined the lower shelves, most of them were unmarked and sealed. Tracy assumed they were shop stock although if it was the barren state of the shop puzzled her. Oh well, she thought, maybe Aunt May had been ill.
Tracy lifted the torch to the top shelves and gasped.
Rows of jars glistened through their thin dust layers in the torchlight. Three shelves full, sometimes three deep, jars of different sizes and shapes lined the walls. Tracy swung her torch around and caught glimmers of more jars lining the walls of the cellar.
Curious she reached up and lifted a jar, slightly larger than her hand, and held it under the torchlight. Inside a small creature, as pale as the life forms that inhabit the depths of the ocean, the light seemed to shine right through it illuminating the tiny bones inside it. The creatures head reminded her a little of a sea horse and the claws and tail reminded her of a…a…no, that was ridiculous; there was no such thing.
Breathing heavily not wanted to think about the jar in her hand, Tracy searched the wall frantically for a light switch. Finally she located the cord near the cellar door and she tugged; only half hoping that it worked.
Light bathed the room. Tracy refused to look at the shelving lining the walls. Instead she focused on the small desk in the centre of the room. She approached it and sat at the little metal chair. The only item on the desk was a large leather bound book. Tracy put the jar carefully on the table and switched of the torch. She opened the book using only the tips of her fingers and scanned the page.
On the inner cover previous owners had scrawled their names as the book had been passed from owner to owner. Some of the names were in ink so ancient and blurred that she couldn't make them out. That last name, in neat copperplate handwriting, was May green.
Tracy flicked the page over, her eyes scanned the title page but her brain didn't register their meaning until the forth time that she read the words.
The Beaftf of Albion.
A drangone hunterf guide
Behind her came the sound of scraping as something swished across the flagstone floor.