Title: Syntax
Author: Sophistocrat
Summary: Future. Literati. She couldn't see it then, but she sees it now, and she should have known: it was never the message that he couldn't figure out. It was the syntax.
Pairing: Literati. As far as I'm concerned, nothing else exists.
Disclaimer: Yes, I own Gilmore Girls. All of it. Naturally.
A/N: I wasn't going to post this until I had more than the prologue, but I couldn't sit still. I know that, as of yet, Jess and Rory aren't even mentioned in this story, but in my opinion, Jess and Rory just don't work when it's all rushed, and it's going to come along at a slow sort of pace. So, yeah, if you're expecting for them to proclaim their love for each other by chapter three, then this is not the story for you. I expect this to be a several (think fifteen, twenty) part story, and while there is a small chance that this will have an angsty end, I don't plan on it. Finally, I remember reading a Lit author once write that she didn't believe in not finishing a story just because real life kicked in, and I really respected her for that, so if I ever get a little slow on updating, pester me somehow, message me, send me pointless reminders on an annoyingly frequent basis, anything – just guilt me back into updating, because even if it's only one reader, I think that reader deserves to know what happens... But, please, no harassment or nastiness... It won't be looked upon kindly.
Prologue
As he finished his breakfast routine early one Monday morning after a long weekend of harassing the recently widowed Mrs. Napear-Daggett on Peach Street about her terribly poor taste in window awnings (for despite the undeniable fact that tasteful window awnings were far and few between these days, it was - in his mind - a travesty simply owning window awnings when traditional white plantation shutters would suffice), Taylor Doose was ill at ease. His morning toast, of course, showed all the markings of truly great toast, with the two perfectly square pats of butter laying side by side down the middle of his perfectly square slice of bread that was neatly aligned parallel to the edges of his perfectly square table; his glass lay directly north-north-east of his plate, the 2 milk inside rising exactly one and a half inches below the rim of the cup; and the exact positioning of his silverware could not be debated by even the most renowned of etiquette instructors in Paris. His digital sleep monitor informed him that he had received the exact eight hours of sleep as prescribed by his physician, the buttons of his newly-pressed cardigan nicely matched the carefully-polished buckle of his shoe, the reading that blinked from his bedside alarm matched the time displayed on the grandfather clock in the hallway which matched the minute and second hands of the round clock on his kitchen wall which matched the reading on his antique wristwatch, and yet Taylor Doose was ill at ease.
Frowning to himself, he took cautious and calculated steps towards his front door, pausing every so often to turn back and reexamine the placement of the portraits on the wall, before finally deciding that perhaps nothing was the matter after all, and chalked all of his worry up to the fact that his nerves were probably still shaken from his latest and most infuriating yet encounter with Mrs. Napear-Daggett on Peach Street.
It was not until he whistled past the front of his store, smiled contentedly at the familiar jingle of the door, paused as if suddenly remembering something, and rushed back outside to face the window displays of his store, that he realized the root of his early morning qualms.
As Babette would later recount in town gossip circles, tomatoes were the only objects large enough, round enough, and red enough to accurately describe the qualities of Taylor Doose's eyeballs that early Monday morning when he saw the changed state of the produce signs displayed in his shop's window. The sign which had previously read "Watermelons, 2 for $1! Get them while they're big and juicy!" now had the two words "Call girls" in the place of "Watermelons," and it came accompanied by a montage of pinups and hooker fliers. The one that used to advertise green beans now advertised bustiers, complete with an unsettlingly lurid visual, and "pimps" were now 99 cents each instead of the usual bags of squash. Even the trademark slogan "Best Value In Stars Hollow" that usually hung below the Doose's Market plaque now read "Best Lay in Stars Hollow."
Having waited all of Sunday night due to Doose's Market's early closing hours on Sunday, the citizens of Stars Hollow were itching for the clock to strike seven so that they could buy their much-anticipated, long-awaited stalks of celery and cans of chicken broth. By the time Taylor realized that the marks had been made from the inside of the shop and not on the outside as he had previously thought, seven o'clock had arrived, and shoppers were already pouring in by the dozens, pointing and whispering secretively at the signs as they walked in. It was only a matter of minutes, then, before Taylor fully exploded red-faced out across the town square, flailing his arms about and raving incoherently as he tried to restrain himself from slashing the red and blue streamers left over from the latest town shindig that were still adorning the gazebo.
Why, Taylor hadn't been this mad since –
Well, yes, I suppose it could all be traced back to that time when –
But then that could only mean that –
A/N: Does anyone know how to create indents/tabs? Or how to double space (clicking Enter twice) in between paragraphs? I tried doing it, but it just reverts to the same non-indented, single-Entered version, and it's driving me nuts.