The Creak of the Sign

Creak, crick, creak crick.

The sign swayed in the winds of the building, summer storm. My ice cream cone dripped chilly chocolate onto my thumb as I waited to cross the road.

Creak, crick, creak crick.

It was louder than the thunder that banged from the clouds.

“What are you looking at, Evie?” asked Mommy.

“The funny dragon sign,” I replied and slurped the chocolate from my skin.

“What dragon sign?” asked Mommy. 

Creak, crick, creak, crick.

“That one.” I let go of Mommy’s hand to point at the purple dragon curled around the books high above me. “The one with the books. Why does a dragon have books? Books are made of paper, and dragons breathe fire. It would burn them up.”

“You and your imagination,” chuckled Mommy, and she tugged on my hand as the red hand turned to a green walking man. “That was a travel agency, and it closed down when I was your age.”

I looked back over my shoulder at the sign and the green door beneath it.

“Eveline, hurry up,” said Mommy, and the thunder boomed again. “It smells like a tornado is brewing.” I had to run to keep up, and the rain crashed down just as Mommy opened the door to her car.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Creak, crick, creak, crick.

The sound stopped me in my tracks, and I heaved my backpack higher as I turned. The purple dragon rocked its stack of books in the autumn breeze. The vertigo of de ja vu swirled in my chest.

“Hey Jess,” I called, squinting at the green door and its bronze knocker.

“‘Sup?” My girlfriend draped her arm around my shoulder.

“How long has this bookshop been here?” I asked, and her ochre eyes rolled when she laughed.

“I thought you said you weren’t going to cut sixth period and smoke with Mitchell again.” Jess sniffed my hair. “You don’t even smell like weed. Was it a vape? Gummies?”

“I’m not high,” I snorted, “Seriously, how long has this bookshop been here? I’ve never seen it before.”

A shadow moved behind the shelves that lined the windows, and, for a moment, the scent of smoke teased my nose.

Creak, crick, creak, crick.

“Seriously, Evie, we’re not even halfway through the first semester of senior year.” Jess lifted her arm. “If you get caught, you could lose your scholarship to Florida State. You need to stop hanging out with Mitchell.”

“Jess, I’m not high,” I snapped. “Don’t you see the sign or the books? Can’t you hear it.”

Creak, crick, creak, crick.

“Jesus, Evie, it’s an abandoned travel agency.” Jess pushed past me and slammed her hand against the window. The shadow shifted again. “See, Antho L. Jist’s Gateway.”

The shadow vanished.

“Babes, this travel agency closed like forty years ago.” Jess threw her hands up. “My dad’s been trying to buy it to expand his cafe, but the owners refuse to sell.”

My girlfriend shook her head and grabbed my elbow.

“If I take you home like this, your parents will kill me,” she huffed, “Come on. We’ll study at my house.”

Creak, crick, creak, crick.

The sign echoed behind me as I was dragged around the corner, and a craving came from nowhere.

“Can we get chocolate ice cream first?”

“You and your damn munchies,” giggled Jess.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Creak, crick, creak, crick.

I pulled my earbuds from my ears, tilting my head to find whatever sound had pierced my voice notes from Prof. Jenkin’s lecture.

“Everything okay?” asked Bryan.

“Do you hear that?” I asked and pressed my face against the window.

“Hear what?” He set my blueberry muffin and steaming latte on the table. “It’s like two in the morning, Evie. Nothing is out there except mosquitoes or some drunk frat bros.”

Across the commons a purple dragon snuggled its books against the late winter night.

“Since when did they put a bookshop in the commons?” I asked. Chocolate ice cream flooded my tongue, and the ache of first love and first heartbreak thrummed in my chest. 

“How much sleep have you had this week?” Bryan lifted the empty cup from my earlier macchiato to his nose. “Because it doesn’t smell like you’ve been spiking your drink.”

“I dunno, twelve.” My breath fogged the glass, obscuring my view.

Creak, crick, creak, crick.

Like a metronome, the sign kept time to a nonexistent wind and the thump of my heart.

“This is your last bit of caffeine for the night,” laughed Bryan, “You’re cut off. If you’re hallucinating a bookstore where the campus travel agency used to be, you are bordering on sleep deprivation.”

“I’m not hallucinating,” I yawned, before rubbing the condensation away with my sleeve. “I think I’ve seen it before.”

A warm, golden light flickered in the window across the way, but it didn’t reflect on the frosted grass below it.

“See! Someone’s in there.”

“Okay, that’s it.” Bryan snatched up my latte. “No more caffeine. You’re the third Jenkins' paper breakdown this week.” He reached over my head with his freehand and tugged on the blinds.

The thin, plastic rows crashed down, scraping my nose as they went.

“Hey!” I yelped, but he shoved my muffin into my mouth.

“Eat, before you start seeing dancing pixies,” snorted Bryan. I jabbed at him with my pen but missed.

“That isn’t how you spell anthologist,” he added, before he strode away with my liquid motivation. “It’s ‘l-o-g-i-s-t’ not ‘l-j-i-s-t.”

The words on my laptop screen blurred, and I rubbed my eyes to bring them back into focus.

Creak, crick, creak, crick.

I shoved my earbuds back into place. If I could finish the last three pages, I could sleep for the rest of the weekend.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Creak, crick, creak, crick.

I tossed the folder with my resume into the trashcan outside of Westview Publishing, Inc. The roar of traffic drowned out my choked sob as I braced myself against the warm, metal rim.

“If I don’t have the qualifications, why did you bother calling me in for the interview.” I slammed my fist down on the stone rim of the can, wincing as it throbbed up my arm. “Since when do you need a master’s degree for an entry level assistant’s position?”

Creak, crick, creak, crick.

I froze, lifting my head at the hypnotic sound.

Creak, crick, creak, crick.

I turned, dodging the group of business suits hurrying past. They didn’t even seem to notice my existence.

Creak, crick, creak, crick.

Chocolate ice cream, and first kisses danced on my tongue.

Creak, crick, creak, crick.

Blueberries and roasted coffee beans flooded my nostrils

Creak, crick, creak, crick.

The petrichor of summer rain and the metallic bite of autumn winds stung my throat.

Creak, crick, creak, crick.

My heart lodged in my throat, as the weathered green sign swung above the crowded streets of Manhattan. 

Creak, crick, creak, crick.

The brass knocker gleamed in the spring morning, and I swallowed.

It couldn’t be here. It couldn’t be in New York. 

But, then, it couldn’t have been on the commons of Florida State University.

It couldn’t have been in Ybor City, Florida.

It had been on the corner of a street in Leavenworth, Kansas.

This time, there was nobody to stop me, and I darted into the pre-noon traffic of Manhattan.

Three cars honked, but I ignored them, dodging a bus, until I tested the strength of my heels as I stumbled to a stop beneath the purple dragon and its nest of books.

Creak, crick, creak, crick.

My heart drummed a tattoo against my ribs as I reached for the knocker, but I drew my hand back. Holding my breath, I grabbed the worn knob and twisted it.

The door opened, and a tiny bell tinkled overhead.

Rich, warm incense washed over me, as I stepped into the dim, hazy bookstore.

“Welcome to the Anthologist’s Gateway,” called a voice. “Are you looking to travel or to add your realm to my directory?”

I crept forward, clutching my purse to my chest, until I found the polished, wooden counter and the ancient, burnished cash register.

“Hello,” I murmured, and the woman behind the counter dropped her pristine rag.

Her purple eyes gleamed beneath hair like spun moonlight.

“A human.” The woman snorted, and tiny tendrils of smoke spiraled out of her nostrils. “A human, in my shop.”

“Me?” I squeaked, and I jumped back when embers shot from her lips in a rough snarl.

“Yes, you,” growled the woman. “Who in the seven thousand seas are you, and how did you find my shop?” She leaped over the counter, stalking towards me.

“I–” I stammered.

“I-I-I,” mocked the woman. “You humans. You couldn’t see the sun if it danced a reel on the tip of your nose.” She backed me into a shelf, towering over me, and seized me by my lapels. “How did you see my shop?”

I froze, an unfamiliar panic and yearning robbing me of my will to flee or resist.

“Who sent you? Who thought it would be funny to send a human into my–” she paused, sniffing near my face. “Oh, you're a world birther. It’s about time one of you answered my help-wanted call.”

“I’m not a world birther,” I choked out, "and I didn't receive a help wanted call. I just–” 

The woman cut me off with a laugh and smoothed the wrinkles in my coat.

“I’m the Anthologist,” chuckled the woman. “What’s your name, little world birther?”

“Eveline,” I whispered, quite unable to move away from the shelf. “My name’s Eveline Penmark.”

“Oh, my granddad hired a Penmark.” The Anthologist took my hand and tugged me away. “Of course, that was about three hundred years ago, before I took over the Gateway hub.”

Her palm was nearly scalding against mine, as she tugged me along behind her.

The smoke, the purple eyes, the books, the dragon curled around books.

“Isn’t it dangerous for a dragon to own a bookshop?” I blurted the question as soon as my mind caught up with my tongue.

The Anthologist roared with laughter, shooting embers across my cheeks.

“Not if the books aren’t books at all.” She released my hand and opened a door behind the counter. “They are portals to the infinite expanses.”

A cave gaped before me. A merry fire crackled in a hearth embedded in the only wall not lined from stalactite to stalagmite with book-crammed shelves.

Before the fire was a low table, surrounded with cushions and scattered with blank paper and glowing pens.

“Go ahead,” said the dragon woman. “There are worlds waiting to be born.”

I gazed up into her amethyst eyes, and, finally, my world had a purpose. The stories I had never been brave enough to put to paper cried out to be given form.

“I’m an author,” I said firmly.

“A world builder is an author,” teased the Anthologist. She tapped my nose with a diamond nail. “But your stories, Eveline, your stories will open portals to realms yet to be seen or lost in the infinite of the cosmos.”

“Your sign hinges need oil,” I giggled, before dropping my purse and rushing to the cushions.

“No, they don’t,” said the Anthologist, as she leaned against the door frame. “They only creak when it’s time for a new world birther.”

Giggling, I plucked up a pen, and my cheeks burned when I realized it was the exact color of her shimmering eyes.

“I hope they don’t need to creak again for a very, very long while.” My cheeks burned when I glanced back to find her still leaning against the door frame, with a lavender flush blossoming across her own, lovely face.