Hickory Dickory Dock (I).
The Mouse Ran up the Clock.

I suppose an introduction is in order before I continue. My name is Zephyrina Storm, though I would prefer it if everyone calls me Zipp. I was born and raised under the roof of my mother, Queenie Haven, alongside my sister, Pipp Petals, in the third largest city in the state of New York, Zephyr Heights. My mother is not the mayor per say, but a very influential and shall I say, overly rich. In my younger days, my sister and I were provided the best education that the city could afford, but to be honest it was all quite dull to me, that was until we were transferred to Maretime Bay downstate. We met some new friends, which helped with my interest in school.

Anyway, my adventures begin when I qualified for the State Student Summer Exchange Program, meaning I along with some other students across the state would take the summer off overseas; I was put with the group that would head for England, or the U.K. as I call it. My mother and sister fussed about with my packing, much to my annoyance. Of course they assumed that I would not be able to find a suitable enough place to lodge that did not have a washer/dryer.

"Don't forget to message me every day!" my sister said.

"I'll do just that," I replied, and I did.

All the usual stuff really. I needed an excuse to take an extended break from my family.

After about an entire day in the air high above the Atlantic Ocean, my flight landed in London City Airport. Nothing much else happened next, aside from the terribly long lines to wait for my suitcase to arrive. When it did, and my passport go through, I opened up to the streets of London itself: both modern and old-fashioned, one of the few cities I have seen where it could blend seamlessly.

Where to next, I did not know, until I spotted a pair discussing a Hostel.

"Excuse me," I said. "Hi, sorry to interrupt, but I think I heard you two were discussing a Hostel?"

"Oh, yes," the woman replied, sharing my American accent. She looked intelligent, about my height, dark-haired, and simply dressed. The man behind also looked young, though dressed as what we might call a college boy. They were also carrying dark-green rucksacks, for hitchhiking, no doubt. "My name's Sally Finch, and this is my friend, Leonard Bateson. I just returned from a vacation in Amsterdam, and I'm studying here for a scholarship."

"Zipp Storm," I greeted, "and I'm here as part of the Summer Exchange Program."

"As, yes," Leonard grinned. "The bane of this city's existence, from what I've been told."

"Be quiet, Len. Anyway, Zipp, yes, we are on our way to the Hostel on Hickory Road."

"I never said anything about where you were going."

"You didn't need to."

I could tell she was more intelligent then myself, if not more witty.

"Is there any room left?" I asked.

"I, can't say for sure. The rooms might all be taken."

"Oh," I sighed.

"Well, like she said, we don't know for sure," Leonard said. "You could tag along with us, if you don't mind."

I was glad to have met folks about my age who were acting in kindness to me. I accepted.

We road the fabled London Underground until our stop at Hickory Road: a rather old-fashioned stretch of lane, mostly with its architecture and not its citizens. The Hostel itself was a mash-up between 24 and 26 Hickory Road, and as old-fashioned it was each person lodging here had their own room. Leonard, being the cheeky bastard he was, held the door open for us, Sally and I.

"Thank you," I said.

"Don't mention, ever," he replied. "Anyway, welcome to Hickory Road Student Hostel. Upstairs and to your left are the girls rooms, and to your right are the boys rooms. The sitting room is just down there."

"How many of you live here?"

"Well, you've met Sally and I. There's also Nigel Chapman, he's studying Medieval History, Colin McNabb who's studying psychiatry, Patricia Lane a student of archeology, Celia Austin, a dispenser at St. Catherine's Hospital, Mr. Akibombo, and Valerie Hobhouse, owner of a beauty parlor."

"And are all of you studying?"

"Most of us, say for Celia and Mr. Akibombo. Anyway, the Hostel's owner is Mrs. Nicoletis, though it's Mrs. Hubbard who looks after us. Old Mother Hubbard we call her."

"I get it," I smirked.

"Anyway, the sitting room is just down here. You can leave your luggage in the coat room."

I did so, before following him and Sally into the sitting room. It was clean, square, an armchair or two beside a few studying desks, and one large bookshelf along the furthermost wall. It was clear a discussion was occurring when we arrived, as the girl in glasses and scarf at the nearest studying table was hunched in a focused manner on the man in the armchair: he was simply dressed, for another college boy, disheveled hair, and glasses too. At the bookshelf was a man with the darkest skin color I have ever seen, though he was as dressed as the others in the room.

I am not that skilled of a writer, so I will just leave the rest of it to the reader's imagination, and online news articles and pictures.

"Hi," Sally greeted, as she entered ahead of us both.

"Welcome back, the weary travelers," the man in the armchair greeted back. "I see you've brought a new friend with you. She looks fanciful."

I rolled my eyes.

"Nigel, Zipp. Zipp, Nigel," Leonard said.

"She's just arrived, in fact," Sally said, sitting on the nearest desk while lighting a cigarette. "She joined up with us at the airport."

"How was Amsterdam, Sally?" the girl at the other table said.

"Oh, it was wonderful."

"It was just the journey back. It was hell," Leonard groaned. "Do you know they nearly arrested me for smuggling?"

"Wait, seriously?" I said. "What for?"

"100 cigarettes," Sally answered. "Probably thought they were contraband. After all, it's very difficult to find a tobacco store in London nowadays."

"Well, maybe that's why the police are coming here, then," the girls with the scarf replied.

"The police?" Sally asked.

"They're not coming here are they?" the girl at the furthermost desk asked nervously.

"Guilty conscious, Celia?" Nigel said.

Celia, that was her name, sighed nervously again, making me dislike Nigel even further.

"What do they want?" Leonard said.

"I don't know," who I assumed who was Patricia replied-the one with the scarf I mean. "Ma Hubbard told me just now."

"That's Mrs. Hubbard, right?" I asked.

"Yeah, that's her. Patricia Lane, by the way...Zipp, if I'm correct?"

"Yep. But, what would the police want to do with this place?"

"They're investigating something, I believe."

"Maybe it's something to do with all these thefts," Sally said. "It's about time."

"They wouldn't call the police for that, would they?" Celia nervously asked, again.

"I don't know," I said. "Thefts are thefts, after all."

"You're right about that, Zipp," Sally said. "Anyway, I have to make a call. I'll see you."

Sally then got up and left the room, though when she said she had to make a call I did not expect she would outright leave with her rucksack. I was very much confused about the whole affair, at least right off the bat.

"You seem to have rattled one of our American friends, Celia," Nigel mused. "Maybe she's the one with the guilt conscious."

Celia of course once again shrunk back down in embarrassment at Nigel's words. Having enough, I then went over to the bookshelf. I had forgotten to take any of my own, and I am what you would a reader rather than a watcher. And, as stated before, who I assumed to be Akibombo was also searching amongst the shelves.

"Hello there," he greeted. His accent was definitely native to some African country.

"Hi," I said. "Akibombo, right?"

"Yes, that is correct. I come from what is called Western Africa, though I am not educated in English language."

"Well, it's a pleasure to meet you."

"You as well."

"What's that you got there?" I asked, pointing to a small sharp fang hanging like an earing.

"It is charm my grandfather give to me," Akibombo replied. "I not believe in voodoo, but I keep out of respect and piety. He loves me, and I too, but I wish sometimes he would not be stubborn."

"I know how that feels."

Akibombo was a handsome man by his own rights. He had various bracelets and decorations on his hands, ears, and arms, but also a light-gray sweater over black pants, large brown shoes, and a light brown tweed jacket with elbow patches. He also had no hair, meaning he was completely bald in appearance.

"You have family?"

"I live with my mom and sister."

"You love them?"

"Yes, but they can both get on my nerves sometimes."

"But you love them, still?"

I liked the look he had in his eyes. "Yes," I said. "I do still love them."

There was something else about Akibombo that I liked most of all about him: his smile. It was genuine, and it was never pushed aside for any reason. It was like, well...magic, really. I never told him this, because I do not think he would have believed me.

"You have good head on shoulders," he said.

"Thanks," I replied.

"Hey, Zipp!"

"Yeah, Leonard?"

"Would you like to talk to Mother Hubbard?"

"Oh," I said, before I paused for a moment in thought. "Yeah. Sure."

I then followed Leonard out from the room and into the hallway where a woman was waiting for us. She was only a hair shorter than me, more so than Leonard, a hint of age in her skin, more plumper in build, but no less demeaning. She carried respect, at least from the look on Leonard's face.

"Mo-Mrs. Hubbard, I take it?" I asked.

"Yes, that is me," she replied. "Leonard told me you are looking to take a room here?"

"If there's one to spare."

"Do not catch me finding that you have taken me as a roommate," Leonard hissed.

"Really, Leonard. Very well, let me check my records."

Mrs. Hubbard soon scurried off to her own office and began searching through her filing cabinets. After about three minutes, she was holding two stacks of papers, which she then stumbled and dropped one of the stacks.

"I hope I'm not bothering you," I said.

"It's no bother at all," she replied, hastily reorganized her papers while picking them up. To be honest, I was impressed with her abilities. It was like she was a living breathing machine, I have no other idea how to describe her working habits. Today, however, I and Leonard could tell she was stressed, about the string of thefts, no doubt.

At last, she finished. "I'm sorry, dear, but there is no other room left in the Hostel."

I sighed while shrugging my shoulders.

"However, if you could convince Patricia Lane, she might take you in as a flatmate. Sorry about this short notice, but as you can see, my plate is full, as Americans say, right?"

I nodded. "Does this place have a radio or a TV?"

"Oh, yes. The telly's in the sitting room."

I turned back to the door from where the others were in, then to Mrs. Hubbard. "That's the studies room," she replied. "It's meant to have no distractions, as it's meant for the students to do their studies; in complete silence, if need be. The sitting room is just down the hall and to your right."

I turned back to Leonard, frowning.

"What?" he said, feigning innocence.

I just rolled my eyes while groaning in annoyance.

"Oh, fine. I'll go let her know."

After that little disagreement, I strolled over to where Mrs. Hubbard directed to be the sitting room.

"This summer vacation has gone rather smoothly, I think," I said to myself.

The sitting room had a television, a simple one really. Rectangular and black, nothing fanciful about it, just the way I prefer technology to be. There was nothing good on, besides the news; and even then I was bored out of my mind about the programs. There was another bookcase in the room, and I just happened to find one of my personal favorites: Agatha Christie's And Then There Were None. The best mystery story of all time.

After a while, of about a few hours, I got bored of sitting on my own in the sitting with such dumb programs. Presently, I bumped into Patricia in the hallway, I was focused more on my reading, you see.

"Oh! I am so sorry, I didn't see you there!"

"No, that's alright. I was just reading this book, and was on my way back to the studies."

"Have some homework to do?"

"No, I just focus better on reading when I'm not on my own surrounded by the sounds of garbage TV shows. Of course, it's pronounced 'rubbish' over here."

I smiled only for a small chuckle, but quieted when I noticed she did not return it. Nervous, I turned away from her face to notice a new...notice on the board and it read:

Dinner Lecture

Thursday, June 6th

Mr. Hercule Poirot.

"Her-cyulie Poi-rot. Sounds French," I said.

"I think it's pronounced Poirot. The sixth, that's tonight," Patricia said.

"Wonder what he's going to talk about. Fanciful etiquette, maybe?"

"I think he's a detective."

"Really? I've never heard of him."

"Really? I'm surprised. He's been in the news as of late, solving murders and that sort of thing. I at least figured he would be known in America."

"What's he like?"

"I don't know. I've never met him. What are you reading?"

"And Then There Were None, by Agatha Christie."

"Two minds of mystery under the same roof, I see it."

"Soon to be three."

She gave a little chuckled under her breath, then I followed her into the studies room where some of others were all gathered.

"No, no, no," a new voice was saying, heavily Scottish. I assumed it was Colin McNabb. "You don't understand, Celia. Look, I could murder someone if I wanted to, but only if there was no motive."

"How can I understand when you don't explain it to me, Colin?" Celia sighed.

"But I have explained it."

I strolled over to the nearest empty seat, not before another new face caught my attention. By the look and style of her clothing and hair, I figured she would be Valerie Hobhouse.

"Hello there," she greeted. "I'm Valerie Hobhouse. You must be new, here. Who are you?"

"Zipp Storm," I said.

"She's sharing my room for the time being," Patricia spoke up.

"Only until I can find lodgings somewhere else."

"I wouldn't mind you staying with us. What are you studying?" Valerie asked. Unlike most beauty parlors I know, there was not the sweetness. You know, the kind of voice they pull off when talking to their customers.

"Actually, I'm staying here in Britain for the summer."

"Oh, your one of the exchange students. Honestly," she scoffed, "some of them can be so damn loud."

I did not bother trying to rebuke her, I was much to focused on my reading.

"Have you all heard about the great detective we've got coming over to see?"

"Oh, yes. Zipp and I just read the notice," Patricia replied, almost immediately. "Do you drink tea, by any chance, Zipp?"

"Not really, but I've always wondered what it tastes like."

"You've never drank tea in your life?" Valerie exclaimed, however not as a great outburst. "You're missing out."

"Who hasn't told me that before? Anyway," I drank a few sips, enjoying the lovely warmth. "What were you guys talking about?"

"Colin here was discussing about murderers and motives. I'm afraid the short notice has got him going."

"I'm just saying murderers get caught because they have a motive," Colin spoke up again. "Take away the motive and they are invisible."

"By that logic, people who enjoy killing for a hobby have a motive anyway," I shrugged.

"That's a horrible thought," Celia gasped.

"Sorry, Colin," Valerie amused. "She's got you there."

"Wanting to kill does not count as a motive, there must a reason for them wanting to have a particular person dead," Colin exclaimed.

"Then perhaps this detective coming over tonight will put this matter to rest."

"Is there any milk left," Patricia asked, holding an empty milk pitcher, "or has that been stolen as well?"

"I finished it," Colin answered.

"Say, Colin," I asked. "Where are you from?"

"I was born and raised in Glasgow, and from there I moved here to continue studying for my major in psychology. Scotland's really a nice place to live, if you want to get away from the hustle of your home life; the big cities of New York for instance."

I was intrigued. "How'd you know that? Enlighten me."

"Well, for starters there is a New England accent in your voice, only a slight trace but detectable. Not only that, but it sounds tired, as if looking for somewhere calm to rest."

"Aren't you the Sherlock Holmes."

"He's nothing more than a fictitious fantasy."

Now it was my turn: he was dedicated to his studies of psychology, but perhaps a little to much as there was a hint of arrogance in his voice. I was going to say this, but Patricia beat me.

"If you ask me, that's what we need here, a detective."

"Oh, come on, Patricia," Valerie scoffed again, she had a tendency that was almost an obligation to scoff at anything.

"No, I hate it here, always wondering what's going to vanish next."

Valerie rolled her eyes.

"Maybe this Mr. Poirot will be able to sort it out."

She then set down her empty tea cup before heading out the door.

"You've picked quite the stubborn roommate, Zipp," Valerie said, which I ignored.

Author's note: this is a more EG styled story, just for clarification's sake

Personally, Zipp's appearance is more similar to her pony-counterpart: being her marshmallow-white skin, and toothpaste colored Tintin hairstyle. As for her clothing, I'm thinking of black aerobic leggings, black and white striped tank-top, and black sweater. Running shoes, definitely, no particular brand in mind. I just like the idea of black on pure-white (you do your own mental design).

Leave some ideas of Poirot stories you want to see included. Later on, I'm hoping to include myself Death on the Nile, and Murder on the Orient Express, but that will be later, or never at all.