Author's Note: Here it is, ladies and gents, the edited and redone One Wish! I found this necessary to do before Dead Man's Chest came out, so I would have a decent rooting for writing the sequel. I've completely redone the story, making it (hopefully) more realistic and less teen-drool-fest. Sarah is older, less based on me, and as such much improved. Since shout outs are now banned, I'm going to try to respond to reviews by email, so sorry if I don't get to you all! Despite the strike, it has been seen to that I'm as busy as ever. And now, without further ado, I give you...
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One Wish
By Dream Descends
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The star sign Pisces is known by most to simply be the fish. It is known by most that if you are born between the twentieth of February and the twentieth of March, you are designated a Pisces. What is not known by most is that there is much more to it than a horoscope in the paper and a connect-the-dots puzzle in the sky. The ample layers beneath the shallow description above are rarely explored.
If one were to explore them, one would learn that the constellation of Pisces was originally named Kun, in accordance to the Babylonian legend. Kun translated means the tails, or the tails of the fish. One would also learn about the symbol of Pisces, that most describe as a curved 'H'. It can be interpreted in two ways, the most popular being two fishes tied together, swimming in opposite directions. This symbolizes the conflicting emotions of the Pisces, and their hidden depths. The other interpretation is two crescent moons connected by a straight line, signifying higher consciousness that is constricted by the material world.
Pisces is always listed last in the newspaper horoscopes. This is because the constellation of the fish is last in the cycle, symbolizing death and the end of things. It also makes Pisces the most connected of the signs to the afterlife and the spiritual world. This makes Pisces dreamy and one will find they are usually in some way tied to mysticism. If a Pisces has a bad feeling at any time, you best be on your guard.
As the author is sure more than most of you know, a fish—at least a live one—can be found in water. As such you will find Pisceans are inexplicably attracted to the wet element, whether it be shown through an enjoyment of bubble baths, or doing laps every night at the local swimming pool. A Pisces is at home in the water, most of all at sea. The Piscean's weaknesses, even the near dangerous temptation of alcohol that they can find irresistible, will not take this longing away from them.
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Sarah Burke, a literature major at Kwantlen College and would-be writer, sat in her tiny silver Neon as it hummed in the near deserted parking lot of Chapters Books. She set the car into park and leaned back, pausing a moment before pulling out the key, and then exhaling deeply as the headlights died. The hard darkness of the city night sky crept over her, stilling the crisp air. She opened her door and stepped out into the stifled atmosphere of the mute plaza, absently grabbing her purse and tucking it securely under her arm. With a quick glance around, she walked briskly across the lot and, almost jogging now, up onto the curb. After fiddling with her keys for a moment, she inserted one into the lock on the huge glass doors of the store and skipped inside.
The nighttime always made her nervous.
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In the graffiti-laced alley between Chapter and Home Depot, a small group of hunched over, masculine figures spoke in murmurs. A short laugh cut into the muffled conversation every once in a while, but besides that the only other sound was the sizzle of cigarettes and the scrape of boots against cement.
"Hey—check it out."
A woman was heading towards the Chapters doorway, virtually reeking of anxiety and wearing black pantyhose over long legs. She unlocked the entrance and leapt inside the extensive bookstore, not stopping after she closed the door behind her.
The men waited a beat, then put out their cigarettes and grinned at each other.
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Only the front half of the store had lights on, leaving the back half in long stretching shadows and a maze of darkened bookshelves. Sarah's pumps made a harsh slapping sound on the wood floor that echoed off the walls. As she made her way down the center of the aisles, she glanced uneasily down each one, looking for the two cashiers she had trusted to close down the store.
Oh, great time to skip out of work, Sarah, she mentally berated herself, as she came to the back of the store. The door that led into the staff only areas was unlocked.
In the back room, box after box of unpacked books were stacked up, the ones with the later dates pushed up to the front, reminding her of how behind they were getting. With a groan, she stepped out and closed the door behind her. No one was there.
After quickly using the staff bathroom, she examined herself in the spotted mirror. Her almost-black hair was straying from the shoddy bun she had tied it in that morning, hanging limply over her face. She tugged out the elastic and let it hang around her shoulders. She didn't want to take the time to fix her makeup—no one was going to see her anyways, and it made her look even paler than she already was.
She turned to the side, straightening out her skirt. She was skinny—not slim, skinny. She had been slim once, before she moved out of her parents'—mom's house. But that was six years ago. Back then she could've called herself pretty, too.
Whirling around, she stared at the door in alarm, hazel eyes widened. A door had shut somewhere in the store.
Mind buzzing, she tried to remember if she had locked the front door after she had come inside. She quietly closed the bathroom door, cautiously re-entering the main part of the building. Her hand was inside her purse, digging through it as silently as she could, trying to find her cell.
Someone's voice floated back to her from the front of the store—male, low. Swallowing, she eased herself backwards into the astrology section. Her heart was beating so hard it was almost painful. Half of her mind was telling her to stop being ridiculous; it was probably the employees she had left to do her job for her—who would rob a bookstore anyways? She had always jumped to ridiculous conclusions, especially at night. It was just nerves.
But it was two girls she had left to close. The voice she had heard was distinctively male.
And if those girls hadn't closed properly, which they hadn't because the back room was unlocked—hell, they probably skipped out of work just like her—the cash registers could very well be unlocked too. But surely the girls would put the money away…?
You're at the other end of the store; they won't find you. Taking rhythmic gulps of air to calm herself, she clumsily slipped off her shoes and stuffed them in her purse. On tiptoe, she moved along the aisle and into the kids' corner, until she was as far away from the intruders as possible. She sat down behind the children's classics section and hugged her knees to her chest, nervously plucking at her pantyhose.
A moment of harsh breathing, and then with a rumbling mechanical boom, all the store lights went dark. Sarah involuntarily let out a little gasp, as the shadows stretched farther up the walls.
Cell phone. She glanced down into her purse. It was resting there on the top, and in bright blue the words LOW BATTERY were flashing in her eyes. She could feel her stomach plummet as she glanced at the time.
11:51.
Tears pricked her eyes. It was her twenty-fourth birthday in less than ten minutes—March sixteenth. Her lips turned up in a watery smile as she remembered what she had said when she was younger: the day nothing ever happened. The strangest things came to mind at the strangest of times.
Her family was Irish on both sides—and fiercely proud of the fact. When the doctor had announced that her mother's due date was March seventeenth, Saint Patrick's Day, her relatives had been thrilled. When she was born a day early—they hadn't been. Sarah had missed out on unending familial approval by a day, and as such was fated to suffer the consequences for the rest of her life. Her birthday had never been a very exciting event in her childhood home, what with everyone busy preparing for the celebration the next day; in fact it had been forgotten almost completely more than once. The people who did remember were the people who especially resented the early baby for it.
Things hadn't improved when her father passed away on March twelfth, six years before, of lung cancer. He was a chain smoker—and probably the best in the world at hiding it. He would always smoke with gloves on, and change clothes after each cigarette. He carried scope, air freshener, and cologne around with him at all times. Sarah didn't even realize why he stepped outside so often until she was in her preteens, and found a pack in his desk drawer.
The year he died, no one had even wished her happy birthday. Not to say that she resented him for it, no—he had been a good father, and it wasn't his fault his heart stopped beating. He died at forty-six.
Her parents had divorced only a couple of months before he had been diagnosed, and her mother had taken Sarah's younger sisters and moved to England, which Sarah had always thought was a bit ironic considering how ridiculously patriotic the woman was. Sarah was seventeen, and preferred to live with her quiet, unfussy father, so she had stayed with him in Canada. She was the first to hear that he was scheduled to die within a couple of months after Christmas.
And so when she got drunk with her friends tomorrow, she wouldn't be celebrating—she would be mourning.
A damp spot formed on her pantyhose, summoning her out of her reverie. She slowly brought her hand up to her cheeks, and realized she had been crying.
Closing her eyes, she tried to think of something else, anything else, to squash the terror quickly mounting inside of her and the tears that could quickly turn to sobs. With quivering fingers, she reached blindly behind her head for a book.
The novel she pulled out was unusually worn for something in the classics section. It was probably from the used book sale they had a week ago, that had gotten them some brownie points with their supervisor for once. The book probably hadn't been sold and was categorized afterwards. She squinted, trying to read the cover in the dark.
Pirates of the Caribbean.
That was odd. She was a literature major and she hadn't heard of it—if it was really a classic. The only pirate classics she knew of were by Robert Louis Stevenson and this author was unfamiliar.
In smaller lettering, under the title, it read, The Lost Factual Adventures of Captain Jack Sparrow, In Three Volumes. Sarah raised her eyebrows—another one of those 'true fiction' books. They were selling like mad these days.
Her heart beating at a more relaxed rate, she opened to the first page.
The image of a man's face was drawn out on the paper; a countenance with high, angular cheekbones, lips curved into a sly grin that flashed more than one gold tooth, and a matting of dark dreadlocks to frame it. Shaded by the tricorne hat atop the man's head, his eyes glittered and sparked like fire. Sarah was struck at the artistic expression that shone through them. The man was really quite good looking, despite the longish hair and gold teeth. She assumed he was the 'Jack Sparrow' that the cover had referred to.
Below the drawing of the pirate captain were the words: Volume I: The Curse of the Black Pearl.
She was turning onto the sixth page as her phone's clock blinked to midnight.
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