The Bookshop
The wig had been hiding her bubblegum pink hair, cut just under her ears. Removing the pearly glasses revealed light brown eyes. She wore a fitted navy blue tee-shirt with stars sprinkled across it.
“And who’s this young lad, eh?” She said, grinning jovially down at Gerard.
Gerard gaped.
“This here is—hmm, I don’t think I asked you your name, boy.”
Gerard failed to answer coherently and continued to gape. Delia began to look a bit uncomfortable.
“Erm—is he alright?”
The old man shook him. “What’s your name, boy?”
Gerard attempted to briefly pull himself together. “Gerard,” he mumbled.
“Well, Gerard! Looks like we’ve got some business together!” Delia said brightly. “Let’s see, you have a paper, yes?”
Gerard nodded dumbly.
“Good. Well, unfold it, and read to me what it says.”
He pulled it out of his pocket. Again, he gaped. Somehow, the paper’s message had changed. It no longer read the address of the shop, but gave rather puzzling directions.
“It—it has another address.”
“Yes. What is it?”
“It’s not a normal sort of address.”
Delia tutted impatiently. “But what does it say?”
“1112 Windell Crossing, Alloby, Kalleschin.”
“Right. Of course.” She looked to the old man, who said, “Sounds about right.” Delia nodded. “You’re a bit short, here, step up onto the table—yes, just like that—and take my hand.” Delia extended her hand in the painting.
With knees a bit weaker than they had been before due to the wobbly nature of the table, Gerard hesitated. “Er, excuse me?” Had he misheard her? “You’re in a painting.”
Gerard stiffly dropped the teacup, (his brain needing an extra moment to remind his hand of the simple motion, unfortunately overlooking that the task was to set it safely down rather than simply release it), which spilled tea over the books covering the floor. The old man grunted in irritation and went to go clean it up.
Delia stared at Gerard. “Come on mate, my arm’s getting tired. We’ve got things to do, people to see. I won’t kill you.”
Author
The Spark
18
The old man huffed, acting as if Gerard’s statement had been remarkably foolish. "Yes, that's what she said. Take her hand. And put her teacup down, will you?"
Gerard stiffly dropped the teacup, (his brain needing an extra moment to remind his hand of the simple motion, unfortunately overlooking that the task was to set it safely down rather than simply release it), which spilled tea over the books covering the floor. The old man grunted in irritation and went to go clean it up.
Delia stared at Gerard. “Come on mate, my arm’s getting tired. We’ve got things to do, people to see. I won’t kill you.”
Gerard felt as though this was not in any way a conventional or even slightly comforting thing to say to someone. He looked back nervously at the old man, who straightened up (although it made little difference in his height). “Good luck, Gerard.”
Thoughts swirling in his head, he tentatively reached out. His hand slipped through the canvas like it was a veil of thin silk and grasped Delia’s. She gave a small smile, and yanked him through the painting.
Gerard wondered if he wasn’t delusional after all.
-Danica M.