Hello! I know I say that I try to have one fanfic at a time, but seriously, I need to get this story out of my system. My brain has been whittling away at this plot for a week or so, and now I can't get it out of my head. Some of the chapters basically will be a parodies on famous fairytales (get it? Marytales?) or stories, with the occasional none-parody chapter. Oh, and I put this story up yesterday, but I deleted it because I saw an error that bothered me, no wrries. S'all good. :)
Marytales
Chapter one: In the ink
Mary was always an avid reader, even as a babe; never did she leave a book uncompleted. As a little girl, she would take her father's biology books and her wide dark doe eyes would scan the pages, taking in the information and nodding at the detailed diagrams, understanding. Her brain was an amazing mechanical device, intricate, glittering with imagination, wheezing and gasping with the information it held. And yet little Mary was but a librarian, when she could be an inventor, a writer, an actress, with her level of skill and imagination!
Yet she seemed to enjoy life as a librarian immensely. Rare was a time when footsteps other than Mary's own petite soles stepped upon the gleaming polished floors. Public it may have been, it was not for them, it was for her. She could do things in there that would have been frowned upon anywhere else: sitting down in a cosy corner of the room, burning the midnight oil, as she was being transported into the world of Dickens, for example? What about reciting Shakespeare? She could even write poetry and stories with no one other than the characters of her beloved books stalking the pages of her books, and the little family of mice she had befriended in the room.
It was her escape, her sanctuary; her mother was a disappointment to her – materialistic, ill mannered, even a little bit – dare she say it, selfish. Her father had been her favourite person in the world till he, too, had had enough of his wife, and found his escape; drink. He drank a lot, and stumbled home, yelling, slurring his words, pointing the finger of accusation at anyone; Mary couldn't bear to see him like this, so she was simply go into her warm little library, heat the fire and sit down with a good book.
Yet Mary held with her a plenty of hope; worried as she was about her family, she had no doubt in her mind that one day they would hold hands like a happy family again, with a nice, happy mother and a calm, intelligent father. Mary believed in happy endings. Her eyes had traced the pages of the oldest, dog eared paper backs which pages held glorious happiness. She loved fairytales, anything like that.
She seemed to live a fairytale life; her eyes seemed so faraway, she had perfect manners, she spoke in a soft, feminine voice, and she frequently spoke in peculiar, poetic ways. You couldn't help wondering what on earth was going on in that mind. She had a rather rambling, quietly spontaneous manner, and she often wrote stories, and had a quiet step, which came in useful when doing such secret things like slipping outside after midnight for a long moonlight walks. Well. Actually, she had never gone for a moonlit walk, but it was a nice idea. It was the type of thing she would do.
She was unorganised for a librarian, she was strange, she was a little bit pretentious, she could even be quite mean when riled up, but she was a kind girl; she put others before herself – which, is nearly a rare trait nowadays.
She nearly always read other people's stories, or if she wrote a story, she would write about someone else. This time, it's her story.
That was fun. Bye.