A Marientte's Hold

by Writer'sBlocking

When people think of writers, they usually imagine people publishing stories and living a life of fame. Lola's never had that. All she has is an ever-growing pile of debt and stories that don't seem to be her own. When Melinda finds the story of Mary Frost, the tale of her brother (Jack Frost)finally comes to life. I own the cover photo and my OCs, nothing else. T for possible gore

Prologue:

My pen glides across the smooth, lined papers. It happened again - my dreams smacked me with such an inspirational story that my new notebook is already pages full. For reasons unknown, I can never focus on anything once these ideas hit me. It's like watching a movie, but then that movie entices you to write a book about it. I've gathered many notebooks over the years - I can never afford to buy a computer to sort everything out better. Kind've worth it - seeing all the notebooks stacked and squished together on one of my bookshelves gave a sort of satisfaction I haven't been used to for a while. Stories are ranging to my first pre-teen years. I wasn't a great writer back then, as I was just trying to write everything down before I forgot and then never had the energy to revise them.

I like to think I got better. I never let anyone read them, so I won't truly know if I did grow. These stories feel personal - as if I am writing out the lives of someone who lived before me. Whenever people ask, I simply say its random notes or diaries, and then change the subject. And as I sit upon my old, worn desk within my cramped apartment, I can't find it in myself to tear myself away from the page. However, with a single glance at my phone, I realize I have to get to work soon. So, with a painfully slow wrap-up, I move to finish my morning routine. Thankfully, I landed a job at a quiet book store just a few blocks away. So, I throw on some skinny jeans and a professional black button-up shirt and gather my most recent notebook, my special red pen, a pencil, my phone, and shoes before heading out the door.

I shove my keys into my coat pocket, losing the world around me as I go back and read what I wrote. I mark a few places where I messed up with my red pen to fix it later. By the time I reach my workplace I read and reread all the pages and made notes of everything I can change to make it better. As I enter the door, silence follows after me. There is no bell chime, nor anyone there to greet me. I'm getting the morning shift alone, then. I can't care less - more time to write without someone looking over my shoulder. I quickly place my things behind the counter and move to prepare the place for customers. Chairs are placed gently on the floor before plain, small wooden tables. I make sure all the books are in place and order them alphabetically. Then, when no one walks through the door within the moments I take to relax, I move on to sort the new books. They only come in on rare occasions, and I'm usually the one to sort them.

But once I finish looking through the varying author names and weird titles, getting myself comfortable with the books within this shop, I move to the counter. Still no customers, so I pull out my notebook. I've always had a thing for decorating the front as if it was the cover to my story. This one has to be my favorite - even if the story is surprisingly sad. A sister witnessing the death of her older brother - falling through a thin sheet of ice after he saved her by playing 'hopscotch'. The top half of the cover is a winter wonderland - snow gently falling from the cloudy sky, ice hanging off the trees' limbs in elegant drips. Within the middle of the snowy plain, a large pond lays frozen with a delicate sheet of ice.

In the middle, a web of cracks spreads from a gaping hole that had stolen the brother's life.

Finally, the ice fades into a blackened pond. It seemed never-ending, the sea-bed nowhere in sight. Unlike the half above it, the sea bed was devoid of all color - the darkness seeming to finalize what my main character - Mary, already knew. The only thing visible within the water is a prone figure, floating on their back with a deceiving calm. I don't know why all of my stories are so sad - I don't think any of them have ever had a happy ending. Oh, well. Suppose it doesn't matter. With a tiring exhale, I slowly open the book. It's like the letters are calling to me - more than they should. At least, I believe so. I've only ever met one author, but when I asked him how it felt to gain inspiration on a story, he was really vague and honestly confusing. Something about a good cup of coffee in the morning - which I love, but not as much as that guy did.

The thought of missing my morning coffee becomes fleeting, and I'm sucked back into the familiar scene. By now, I can describe everything like the back of my hand. I knew this forest - the small, stubborn leaves that lay hidden underneath small piles of snow. The rabbit's burrow sinking into the furthest tree on the right. And, the haunting pond that stole someone's life, but could still look so innocent. Sadly, the most haunting thing is the laughter that slowly rises from the edge of the forest. I don't bother moving. It's just my imagination, they can't see me. They can't interact with me, and it goes the other way around. My mom used to tell me to take control of my dreams - that I'm the boss of what I create. It never feels that way. It feels like I'm watching through a block of ice, freezing me in place while I witness so many people suffering. But I'll take it in stride, and just continue to write them out.

By the time I've waken from the episode, my notebook is filled out and a new emptiness fills my chest. I write these stories not because I enjoy them, but because they are all I have. My family doesn't talk to each other anymore - a large falling out that I had no part in, but it still affects me. Now, every holiday and birthday is spent alone, no one answering my calls when I wish them a happy holiday. I've been meaning to adopt a dog, but I don't have enough money to raise one yet. Not to mention I'd rather leave my apartment before I even think of getting a pet. I sigh, my shoulders drooping at the thought. With one final heave, I close the cover.

I stare at the cover page, noticing I'm missing one of the most important parts. A title. So, I grab my red pen, as it seems fitting for the story, and carefully write Mary Frost in large and carefully crafted letters. I make them scratchy as if the weight from the contents inside makes my hand tremble. In all honesty, it does. A child that young losing her brother, then believing it was her fault, and eventually dying of cancer wasn't my version of a happy ending. Especially not with everything that happened in between. To think, if my characters were real, their happy ending could be put in the afterlife. That'd be new, and wonderful for my mood. However, I can't bring myself to add or change anything I've written - besides little details or grammar that just develop the same story. It's as if I've become a puppet - the hand holding a pen for someone wishing to share their story.

A puppet holding a pen - how felicitous.

I stare at the page for a moment, before suddenly turning it to the back. Like always, only the back page is left unscathed. Working with a quickness that thrums through my veins, I sign the book for the very first time.

'Marinette ~ 2/15/2020'

Marinette - another word for Puppet. Fitting.