the White Owl

the latest from Dean Michael Christian

the White Owl

This is a story about a girl and a boy,

Brooklyn and Graham,

and second chances.

The White Owl is a book shoppe in England,

and it’s like the TARDIS – bigger on the inside.

Kristin is the waitress at the Diner;

only she can understand love lost.

Radcliffe is the owner of the bookstore

across from the Diner;

he’s a grumpy old man worried about an owl;

he also has a dog –

Gan, the wolfhound,

who watches the back door, which is ajar.

There’s a file of orphaned obituaries–these are given to Brooklyn Decker, young American intern at the Mirror. Graham is the man in the bowler;

he’s always monopolizing the books Brooklyn needs...

Brooklyn is on the run,

Graham is held in one place...

Between aisles of ancient books, while large yellow eyes look on, one is encouraged to open up and let the hurt go while the other has unfinished business.

The back door is ajar, an open invitation...

will you enter?

Or will you let others live life for you?

Brooklyn and Graham,

Kristin and Radcliffe,the Owl and Gan;

everyone should have a complete obituary.

excerpt

The door creaked as it opened, fervently hoping the magic inside wouldn’t escape. It had once before, and if you ask the old man inside, he’ll say it would again. But it won’t be his doing. He’ll just smile and point at the books and ask if you’ve ever heard of ‘the story without end’. Then there’ll be a long silence and you’ll feel awkward, as if you should know what he means.

But you won’t, not unless you were in one. Don’t think that brief flush of air near your neck is accidental, either. No; it belongs to the same wind that tries to push past that door every time it opens. Some say that’s where the magic is kept, in a container no one can actually hold.

Still, you think you know better, you think you’ve heard such fairy tales when you were young, and maybe you have. Few can reach back that far and understand what they heard, though. Fewer still look at what they’ve been given and see a treasure. For those, the opening isn’t just a door but a portal, one that extends across more than just time. The open door to this shoppe carries with it memories that continually stir...reaching, searching, carrying with the flow an essential bit of heart.

You see then what happens when you’re no longer constricted by the binds of life, of this world. You’ll be the first to mention the violins playing in the background, not the last. Sounds of water moving and wind playing on the highlands hold your breath, and you’re hardly aware this is happening until it’s too late.

There’s sounds that want to escape the shoppe, too. Very hard to define sounds that defy being cataloged. One might hear the wispy turn of paper on paper, each moment of its life crying out its need to be read. Or maybe it’ll be the imperceptible sound of dust collecting on the highest shelves, a sound no one should ever hear.

Then there’s the old man, cranky as ever but what do you expect of Irish roots? He’ll have his head in a book––as always––and if you ask about the door being open, he’ll hardly give you the time of day let alone an answer.

Go ahead, push a bit and see if by being sincere, you really want to know if it’s okay, if he’s not worried the bird will get out too.

That’s when he might lift his shaggy gray brows and peer through dark-rimmed glasses, as if looking at you for the very first time. Sizing you up, as it were, wondering if you’re real.

You’ll see his tattooed arm, follow the lines until you can’t anymore. It’s then the pulse of his blood will punch through the silence and push some shadows back into their corners. Some only because others have been too long on their own.

You see you have his attention now, and maybe you’re worried you shouldn’t have asked. He’ll nod as you pull back into yourself, figuring he’s just a cranky old Irishman in a quaint but surprising book shoppe just off the main line. You’ll wonder how you ever found the place––let that idea breathe! If the beginnings of beginning ever start and take hold, perhaps then he’ll see and answer. But if you’re too far drowned in the world, he’ll see that too and wave you off, a calloused hand displaying furry knuckles, as if he’d come out of a Lord of the Rings movie. The similarity won’t hit you though, if you leave just then. It takes time, sometimes, to understand the stories we hear, and even more for those we tell. If you pause long enough, you’ll wonder about all the other ones––you know, the ones you might be in! Now, isn’t that a strange place to be? Sort of like the old man’s book store, the one with the back door ajar, that looks out on a world that has seemingly passed it by...

“The door doesn’t open often, no it doesn’t. It’s fickle that way, don’t you know?”

Startled, you didn’t think the man could speak, or wouldn’t, not to you, not then. Don’t widen your eyes in surprise though when you see a faint stream of book dust pour out with his words, as if pages written were consumed long ago. If you show any consternation, he’ll chuckle, lower one eyebrow and turn his head, still looking at you with the other eye.

“Imagination, that’s all it is; just imagination.”

Probably you’ll believe him because you’re a solid individual, hardly ever given to fantasy.

“Did you close the door, then?”

His question will bring you out of your reverie, root you firmly again to the honey-colored floor.

“Or did you fancy going in?”

There, now is when time will stall and you’ll know it. Assuredly, you’ll know it. When time stops. When you realize you’ve been given a choice. But, what choice is it? Do you dare ask? It certainly doesn’t seem the man is going to tell you, though. Go ahead, risk a glance toward the back of the small book shoppe, there past rows of books lining simple shelves. Books whose spines you can’t see because as the shelves go back, the corners are throwing more shadow than rightly possible.

But you can see the door, alright; it’s definitely ajar, slightly worn antique brass handle, wood the same color as the floor. As if they are one and the same––like a road of liquid gold. And yet, this road seems to be moving, as if the further you look, the less solid it is. Again, do you dare ask?

The crusty Irishman is tapping a pencil, something few use in an age of electronics. You realize there’s no computer on the counter, no idle cell phone nearby. You twist your head and think; was the sign made of neon light? No, it’s carved into white-marbled black granite, the shoppe’s name deeply gouged. Too, the quaint lantern on the wall is the only source of illumination beyond the storefront’s paneled window. Isn’t that what attracted you in the first place? The old-worldliness of the place? You have to like reading, of course, else you’d never have ended up here.

The man is still waiting, looking like he already knows what you are going to say, as if he isn’t so much looking at you but rather, inside you. If you’re one of the world’s children, here’s where you’ll pull out of your confusion and think the proprietor is just some creepy old guy selling older-than-old books.

But, if you’re already hooked by the open door, have already gone past wonder––heard the violin swell amid the soft touch of piano keys––and thought your schedule isn’t that busy, well, maybe he has looked inside and you’re just now understanding what he means, what he sees...

“Take care on the roads you choose, and even more the ones you don’t; sometimes a wrong turns leads you to places you never knew you could get to.”

So go ahead, look past the dark-rimmed glasses, tell yourself you think you know what color his eyes are...turn and look again at the door, holding your breath. Because to enter, you know it’s what you’ll have to do. And if you know this, you won’t be aware when your first steps in that direction come, you’ll not notice when the Irishman rises behind you and turns the ‘open’ sign on the door to ‘closed’. The light will flicker before it slowly grows stronger with each step. The floor will seem less worn and more fluid, like the hint it thinks it is.

The last thing you hear is a whisper at your back, words which you don’t understand and will probably dismiss because the rustle of feathers beyond the door-ajar has already caught your attention, has pulled you past the antique brass handle and worn wooden door.

“Beware the story without end.”