Good Morning

Okay, the other story wrapped, so I wandered through my archives and came up with the following, which is the beginning of something I never finished. I figured it was as good a place to start as any. :)

Happy holiday weekend all.

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Ed – A Love Story



You probably know somebody who loves their car. Really loves it. Gave it a name; washes it once a week; waxes it by hand every sunny Saturday afternoon; and never misses a chance to make sure it is running perfectly. Yes, you probably know somebody who loves their car, or their stereo, or some other inanimate object.

You probably thought they were pathetic, an idiot.

And magic doesn’t exist.

Riiiiiiiiiiiight.

# # #

The bell rang, and I saw a small human female enter the shop. Petite and blonde, she was probably about sixteen, with milk-white skin and silver-gray eyes heavily outlined in black. She should have looked fragile, but the set to her jaw spoke of determination, and the tattoos and piercings hinted at a streak of defiance. Her low-cut jeans were a little loose, but it wasn’t a fashion statement. She’d missed a few meals. No surprise then, that she was shopping at a thrift store. This was the one. I knew it. A little electric surge rushed through my cables, making the screen flicker just a little.

The lighting here was bad, and every inch of the place was crammed full to bursting. Some of the stuff was valuable. Most of it was just junk. The last time any of it had been dusted was sometime during the Eisenhower era, and there was not enough room in the aisles to run a vacuum. Not good for me, of course, but Ethel, the owner didn’t care. What she knew about technology could be written on the head of a pin with room to spare for dancing angels. BUT Ethel knew people. Knew them well enough that she could tell you within a dime how much money was in their pockets and whether they’d be willing to part with it. She was almost never wrong. I saw her dark, button eyes narrow as she assessed the newcomer. Hefting her bulk from the stool behind the counter she lumbered forward, shoving her way through the overstuffed racks of clothing to approach the newcomer.

"How can I help you dear? Some vintage clothing maybe? A little jewelry? I have a couple of nice pins—"

"No thank you." The visitor looked around. "I was hoping you might have some books."

"Books?" Ethel stared at the girl as if she’d grown horns and a tail. I wanted to cheer. Books. The girl liked to read. Hallelujah! There might be hope for me yet.

"Yes, books. One of my friends said you had some books on writing." She sounded dubious. I couldn’t exactly blame her. But I knew the books existed. They’d come in at the same time I had, purchased wholesale from the estate sale of the crotchety old man who’d supplemented his meager retirement by writing articles on vacation destinations he’d never actually seen. Ralph had been a lonely man, quiet and reserved. A dreamer with a real joy for living. He loved animals, but was allergic to fur, dander, dust. So he lived alone with only a goldfish for company, talking to himself, to me, and to Goldie. The day after she went belly-up in her bowl, he went belly-up in his bath. Poor old man. I miss him.

"So you’re a writer." Ethel smiled, showing the sharp little white teeth behind lips painted a garish orange that clashed badly with her dark red dye job. She gave the girl a deceptively innocent glance. "I suppose you already have a computer."

The girl’s eyes narrowed, and her gaze followed Ethel’s gesture to where I sat.

If I had lungs, I’d have held my breath.