5:00 A.M.

Auden

Pen on paper makes a sound like no other, a simple lullaby to replace that of what I missed out on as a child. I'm surrounded by people who are effortlessly creative and all I can contribute is the simple sound of pen on paper. What happens to the idle people with nothing to bestow? I should hope we are given more chances to emit quality. I least desire a minuscule existence with nothing to show for it

New York is erratic with its traffic, people, and menacing buildings. How fascinating is it to see the city at its opposite? Quite, calm, patient perhaps? The city is its most magical, in my bias opinion, at its tranquilest hour, 5:00 am.
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Routinely, I walk down streets of vacant shops, yet to be awoken. 4:30 am in NYC and the sun has yet to make an appearance. Its early fall and the transition from summer to now is at its brutalist. I blow smoke past my lips and watch it hit the icy air, flicking ash off the end of my cigarette. I'm dressed in a thick and suffocating sweater that only makes me long for summers heat. Although in the humble hole in the wall that my apartment is, my lack of AC makes summer a bitch. I'm simply never content.

I push forward against Mother Nature in an effort to make it to my job, a beat up bookstore that I actually own. It began as my grandfathers but of course back then it was in its prime, now if bookstores could be sad ol' Blanchard's Used Books was just that.

The rustic looking shop was adorned with rows upon rows of bookshelves, a simple heaven to someone like myself. My job, sitting around the shop all day, ringing up the occasional customer, was a luxury. Sadly enough the rent for the tiny structure was heinously high because of its "unique location." That's what my vacuous realtor had said when I questioned my bill for the first time, years ago.

I'm forced to open at the craziest hours, 5:00 am on weekdays, 4:00 am on weekends. Its a never ending cycle, seeing as I've laid off my grandfathers entire staff. How was I to pay them?

Money's not an issue, really. At any given moment I could call up my father and ask for thousands, no questions asked. But I've worked so hard to stay away from my family's glamorous lifestyle. I want to work for everything I have, so the books stores labor intensive work does not dishearten me.

What does a privileged child have to write about? Not shit that's what. I spent years with typewriters laced in gold and not a single idea came from them. My father and mother never approved. In their eyes I was to become a child bearing house wife with absolutely no say in what was done.

So at thirteen I ran away. Collected every last ounce of my allowances from the time I was eight and took a cab to NYC. I stayed with my grandfather. He taught me everything there was to know about books and the store. He'd tell me stories about people lined up outside the door and halfway down the block, all waiting to have books signed by the famous authors he'd bring in. By the time I was seventeen I was running the store myself. Grandfather had fallen ill in his old age and was in no shape to run the store. On the day after my eighteenth birthday he passed away and strangely enough I was just glad he'd stuck around for my birthday.

His death, however tragic, was not as heart-shattering as one may presume. It was to be expected at ninety six and a half. The half was important, he celebrated half birthdays greater than the actual day he was born. He used to say, "The halves are so mistreated the rules are so unfair, besides its your first half birthday when your parents begin to think oh shit what have we gotten into." He'd then chuckle wildly in a gruff manic way. You could almost hear his lingering German accent he tried his hardest to hide.

After he passed I saw my parents for the first time in five years. Not a word was exchanged but it was evident. I was no longer apart of my parents lives. I returned to my grandfather and I's apartment and carried on. I opened the store the next morning and every morning after that until now.

September 28 2015, 5:00 am

I step out from the back of the store, at the ringing of the bell three times that sounds when someone comes into the shop. It was almost frightening to have someone come in so early, I'd barely turned the open sign on the door.

"Hi welcome to Blanchard's Books how may I help you?" I recited my grandfather's famous line that he'd evidently passed upon me.

"I have a proposition for you." A tall brunette boy, standing uneven with one hip jutted farther up than the other, says. He looks rather disheveled in a raggedy t-shirt and jeans.

"Yes?" I urge him to continue, feeling my eyebrows knit together in confusion.

"I'd like a job, but you see I'm not seeking money, but rather a place of residence." I stare at the boy around my age. His expression is blank, unreadable.

"You're kidding me, right?"

"Fraid' not." Still, his face is unemotional.

"Look I'm sorry but I honestly don't know how to help you so you can either buy something or kindly leave." I start to turn around and shelve books a little ways to my right but he stops me.

"You need my help." I widen my eyes in disbelief at his outrightness.

"Please explain to me why I'd ever need help from someone as arrogant as you?"

I wait for his retaliating statement but he says nothing. Instead, he swiped his hands back and forth on his jeans at least fifteen times. When he seems to be finished he speaks in a mumble with his head facing down and away from me.

"What were you saying, I can't hear you?" He mumbles a little louder but still he's incoherent. I start to worry for his sanity just when he looks up abruptly and smiles handsomely for his hoodlum ways.

"You need something to write about and I think I can give you it."

That's all it took.
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A/n; wow what a first chapter! I'll have you know that this is going to be revised so many times it probably won't ever even look the same. Please favorite and comment those two things are extremely appreciated especially when they're feedback. Love you all thanks for reading.
- Katie
11-6-15