What's that old saying? Don't judge a book by its cover. Well you can't judge this one can you? You've got to take a deep breath and rip off the wrapping paper and hope that you'll like whatever is inside. Try it with this story. I promise you won't be disappointed. Take a deep breath and dive headlong into the unknown. It's WAY more fun that way.
Hello Thanks for taking a chance on my story. I wrote it over three weeks ago but didn't have the guts to post it until now. I'm about to choose my advanced courses at school and I've been recommended for a Gifted Creative Writing course. I definitely don't think I'm good enough so I'm going to post this story over the course of the summer up until the day I have to pick. If this story gets reviews, criticisms, support, readership, I will both be amazingly happy and it'll help me pick whether I do/get picked for the Create-Write course or just regular English Lit! So help guys! Any offered is appreciated! Enough babbling. Read on!
Every good story ought to begin with 'Once upon a time,' right? Well, mine literally begins 'Once upon a time.' You'll get the humour, or lack thereof later.
Well, once upon a time, the Moon was my anchor. My mom had always told me that no matter where I was in the world, if I closed one eye and held up my hand to the sky, the Moon would never be any bigger than my thumb. I took comfort from that, knowing that whether I was crouched in a sewage-drenched Victorian alley or sprinting from centaurii in pre-Christian Rome, the Moon remained, hanging stoically and silently, watching me progress through the ages, popping up in the inconvenient occasions.
I could see it through the bars of my cell in Civil War-era Texas and beyond the hordes of bombers flying ominously overhead wartime London. It hung there, following my terror, my fears, my tears, noiselessly orbiting, always just out of my reach.
It stopped reassuring me when that thought occurred to me. Just as the Earth would never quite be in reach of the Moon, I would never be in reach of the cure to my curse.
I must govern the clock, not be governed by it- Golda Meir
"Coffee, please," I said, holding out my card to the barista behind the counter. She looked at me blankly, taking my card between manicured nails, and holding it up, a thinly disguised look of disgust on her face. So nice to see civility reigns in New York. Jeez.
"What kind?" she sighed, as if I was somewhat mentally deficient, an tone of sarcasm undercutting her faux-pleasant tone. "Latte, Americano..."
Two could play at the sarcasm game. "Coffee beans dissolved in hot water, dash of milk, hold the sugar."
"We don't stock that, ma'am." Her irritation level was building, as were those of the patrons in the queue behind me, if their tuts and tsks were anything to go by.
"You're a coffee shop. How can you not stock plain coffee?" I looked up at the menu board. Exotic mixtures with even more exotic names stared down at me. I sighed. "Just charge me for an Americano and make me a coffee with the staff kettle." She looked at me uncertainly, muttering something about checking with her manager.
"Just forget it," I snapped, snatching back my AmEx and marching out of the deli, fumbling in my bag for my purse. I located it as I stepped onto the sidewalk, and caught the shoulder of a suit, knocking me off balance, the purse out of my hand, scattering cards and receipts and sending me stumbling into the road. A hand shot out, yanking me backwards a split second before a cab screeched to a halt not two feet away from me. The cabbie hurled a vicious four letter word at me before driving off.
"Typical New York," I sighed, crouching to pick up the contents of my purse. My rescuer bent down to retrieve the rest of the cards before a light-fingered opportunist could take advantage. We stood, and I looked up into the face of my rescuer. Tall, blonde and either addicted to serious steroids or a gym devotee. The sort of guy I definitely would have enticed into some kind of beverage-serving establishment if I wasn't, I checked my watch, so hideously late for work.
"Thank you. So much, I mean, I'm a complete klutz and that kind of thing happens to me all the time, and I'm dreadfully late for work, so I can't stay but thank you!" I exclaimed to my somewhat bemused rescuer as I dashed off, diving into the subway before I could do something else to embarrass myself.
My frustration in the coffee shop only led to trouble for me as the day went on however. I dozed off at my laptop more than once and Phil had to covertly kick me under the table when a superior wandered past.
The Director seemed to be in a serious funk about something since all I heard as I approached his office was violent shouting. I hesitated at his door, glancing at his secretary for confirmation. She nodded, 'rather you than me' written all over her face.
Director Fury slammed down the telephone as I stepped inside, steepling his fingers under his chin, deep in thought, good eye closed. I coughed quietly. His eye snapped open, fixing on me. "Agent, how might I help you?"
"Files from IA have been sent up, sir, we cross-referenced, pre-checked and.."
"Put them on that table, I'll look at them later." He hesitated, looking up at me. "Who are you?"
"Inter-Governmental Comms, sir."
"Where's Agent Sollen?"
"Kazakhstan."
"Agent Gibbs?"
"Bristol."
Fury stood up, picking up a thin file and passing it to his assistant, before heading for the door. "Walk with me."
Surprised, I stepped back to let him pass. "Sir?"
"You're the exchange from SIS, right?"
"That's me," I said, glancing up suspiciously at the Director. "What do you need?"
"Good links with your old boss?"
"Director Brede? Somewhat, I suppose." Please, please, not London. Not now.
"Call him. Get our own file off him any way you can. I don't care what you use, money, blackmail, feminine charm, just get it off him now." He thrust a piece of paper into my hands. "Then go to this address. Get the occupant out any way you can and get him to the 'carrier, ASAP, Agent. Clear?"
I snapped to attention. "Yes sir." He dismissed me with a wave of his hand.
Amazing. No coffee, a near-brush with death, a date with my old arsehole of a boss and a shitty little retrieval mission that didn't even have the decency to be somewhere exotically tropical with decent coffee. I stepped into the office and leaned over to pick up the telephone when a familiar sense of vertigo hit me and my vision blurred and blacked out. I heard Phil shout my name but I was gone before I hit the floor.
Review please. Much love, I'll update as soon as I can Hehe, just realised I didn't even have the decency to tell you the narrator's name. Whoops ;)