kimekaim

[kimekaim]

From Anonymous, to You (Chapter 1)

"I have a delivery for Miss Julia Drossel! Is anyone home?" I persistently knocked on the door. Spring had truly started to show it's colors. Even though I was one of the busier gentlemen those days, I didn't quite mind waiting in front of a beautiful garden under an even more beautiful sky. The red-brick buildings that lined up along the clean stone road were a new and unusual sight for me, but I'd grown very fond of them. The joint melody produced by the rustling of leaves and the chirping of sparrows was suddenly disturbed by panicked footsteps originating from beyond the door. "Just a moment!", a raspy voice echoed from inside the house. As the footsteps got louder, I started hearing panting. "Seems they've realized I've been kept waiting long enough", I thought. The door opened to an expected sight. "I apologize for the wait. Please, do come inside!”, a woman gestured me to enter with a smile. I was not surprised at her appearance. Usually when you hear the word "Novel writer", a person sporting unkempt hair, and oversized clothes comes to mind. You imagine their burdened eyes having thick glasses over them and bags beneath them, practically begging to get some rest. A weak and exhausted appearance is not out of the picture either. This woman—my client, fulfilled all those generalizations. Even though I was the one who had waited, I felt bad for making this poor little creature run and sweat on her way to the door. I dropped my delivery at the entrance as she led the way and I followed. She took small, quick steps, like a child. I could see her messy auburn hair bouncing up and down as she hurriedly made her way to her sitting room. Judging from the crashing and rustling I heard as I was waiting outside, and the fact that her sitting room was oddly cleaner in contrast to the rest of the house, I deduced that she had quickly cleaned up her room while she kept me waiting outside. The room consisted of a dining table, and another, smaller table surrounded by some couches. Dozens of pages were littered all over the small table, accompanied by a typewriter. Miss Drossel extended her hand towards the nearest couch. "Please sit, I'll be right back with some tea", she said as she left the room, her voice having cleared up, her panting subsided. As I took the seat, my eyes scanned the room. The floorwork was intricate, the room was decorated with quite a few cabinets, each housing decorative utensils. The room contained a fireplace and multiple windows. Each window was covered with vines, and the room took on a green-and-yellow hue as the sunlight passed through the vines and illuminated the walls. My attention soon shifted to the object closest to me. The Underwood No. 4 desktop manual typewriter. It was manufactured in 1915 by the Underwood Typewriter company and quickly became the industry standard. It's been called the "Weapon of choice for working class women", though, it was also the preferred weapon of some men, including me. Next, my eyes fell on the unavoidable mess in front of me. Dozens of dozens of typed papers accompanied by even more crumpled up scraps lay on the table. I had started reading them before I even realized it. My curiosity was to be blamed, for the name Julia Drossel had been known to me for some time and enticed profound interest. She was a newly emerged author who had taken the literature world by storm. While other authors wrote stories with the themes of war, love, and honour, Miss Drossel wrote stories which were completely in the realm of fantasy, filled with fearsome, fire-breathing dragons, heroes, princesses, and monsters of every type. She had provided people with fresh, underused themes and she had recieved universal acclaim in return. That's not all of what contributed to her fame, she was apparently an eccentric figure, preferring to stay in seclusion instead of interacting with her fans. Moreover, she was awful when it came to meeting deadlines, and the general consensus was that she was abysmal at work management. Seeing her slovenly appearance and hearing her drop utensils in the kitchen when faced with the simple task of preparing tea did good to convince me of the truth of these rumors. Miss Drossel soon returned with two cups of tea, and let out a breath of relief as she finally sat down and got a chance to relax. "Forgive me for taking too long, writing has left me feeling more exhausted than usual these days", she remarked as she took a sip. "It's nothing. Thank you for the tea." "You are Mr. Eberfreya of the postal company, correct?" "Yes, madame. I take it that I'm to be tasked with assisting you in writing your novella?" Upon hearing those words, her expression drowned. I could empathize. I wondered if it was her frustration and lack of progress that drove her to request a typist. "Yes, that is correct. My work has slowed down to a halt since the past week, so I'm in rough waters right now." It was just as I had deduced. "I'm assuming that you need an extra pair of hands in order to be able to meet your deadline, ma'am?" I questioned. “I wish that were the case, but no, that’s not it. I…..need you to ghost-write for me”. That was strike two. My deductions proved correct twice in a row, but I still found it hard to believe what I was hearing. My deductions were but a hunch, a mere feeling that I followed. This was the last request I had expected to receive from an author of this caliber, who had proven their skill with the pen time and time again. I did a poor job at hiding my surprise. Miss Drossel must have expected a reaction. She gazed down at the floor in slight embarrassment upon witnessing my noticeably open jaw and widened eyes. “Ye—Yes of course! Please instruct me and I shall put your feelings into words.” The words came pouring out of my mouth, which was forming an awkward smile. I wanted to end this uncomfortable silence as soon as possible. The timid lady in front of me took a sip of tea and turned her head towards her window, sporting a dreaming expression as she gazed outside. The collective chirping of birds and clicking of insects coming from outside combined with the yellow and green hue of her meticulous sitting room created quite the memorable ambience as we sat there in complete silence. “My feelings....... I want to write a story that’s capable of pulling tears, touching hearts, being empathized with, and bringing forth a change of heart in every soul that reads it.” “Got it. You want to write a fantasy story with a greater focus on emotion rather than action this time.” “No.” She snapped back. She hunched forward, resting her elbows on the table. She made a stern face. This clumsy and petite young woman had an admirable seriousness when it came to her work. “I want to write a story that will leave its mark on the readers’ hearts for years to come. Such an effect can never be achieved through a fantasy story. People read those stories because the charisma of the heroic protagonist compels them to. They read it for the thrill they get when they see the twists and turns that the hero faces throughout his adventures. They read it because they crave action. Such stories carry no emotional weight. I have learned that because I have failed to achieve that effect.” And I agreed. But what was she going towards here? “This time…. I want to write a story that embraces realism. I cannot reach the hearts of my readers through the charming princes I write, or the shining knights I conjure. If I hope to capture their hearts, I must write stories that relate to them. I must create characters that they can empathize with.” Miss Drossel sat back on her couch, and continued, “Empathy……Empathy is what I want to write about. Do you know what the meaning of empathy is, Eberfreya?” “I think…. Empathy is when you acknowledge the pain that others are going through”, I answered. Pardon me for not being the most well-spoken person in the room. “Correct, but that’s not all there is to it. A wise man once said, ‘Empathy is about finding echoes of another person in yourself.’ The word empathy not only refers to acknowledging the pain of others, but also putting yourself in their shoes. You try to imagine yourself as that person, going through the same pain”. “In other words, Eberfreya. Empathy is the mother of understanding. And understanding breeds kindness. What do you do when you see a weak-looking cat outside your house?” I went into deep thought. What would I do if faced with such a situation? I would obviously be annoyed if I saw a malnourished feline waiting for me at the door. What was I supposed to do? Upon seeing me perplexed at this simple question, Miss Drossel opened her mouth to reveal the answer. I could spot some concern on her face. “Feed it, perhaps?” I quickly spoke. I had never fed a cat before, nor had I even had the notion of doing so. Thinking of cats and what to do with them, I was reminded of my boss. An obvious cat enthusiast, he would order separate milk bottles daily, reserved solely for the neighborhood cats. He had made it so that the company employees and the cats shared the same lunch break. Everyday at 2pm, while we ate our lunches inside, he would step outside and enjoy his time with the cats as they feasted. Remembering him was what enabled me to finally answer the Miss’ question. “E-Exactly! You would feed the cat because you’d deduce from it’s thin stature that it’s probably not been getting enough food. That is empathy. You imagine yourself as the cat, and you think about what you want if you were starving like that cat. That allows you to gain an understanding of that cat’s situation. That in turn, gives way to kindness on your part.” The lady conversing with me was making a dumbfounded expression. Perhaps she expected me to be educated in this matter. I was quite the opposite. “I...I see” My face was like that of a toddler trying to understand a difficult concept. Empathy led to understanding, which made acts of kindness inevitable. I need just imagine myself as another being, another soul, and I would become capable of kindness. That was all I understood from this schooling I had just received. Perhaps being kind was not the arduous task I thought it was. “I have written my fair share of fantasy. My readers will never truly empathize with characters which do not trudge paths which are similar to their own. My readers must have characters which are comparable to themselves. My characters must be human, like my readers. My story must be realistic enough that one may even be forgiven for mistaking it for non-fiction.” I had already figured out what she was trying to say. People who will be flipping through the pages of Miss Drossel’s next work would be anticipating excitement and action, yet all they will receive will be constant, merciless pulls on the strings of their hearts. Miss Drossel desired to put something new in store for her loyal fans this time.

After taking her last sip of tea, Miss Drossel decided to the beat around the bush no longer.

“Eberfreya, You are to assist me in creating a modern spectacle. This year, the imagination of the common man shall not be dominated by archaic tales and folklore, as it has been for so long, rather, we shall breathe new life into the world of words and expose the literary masses to new and foreign wonders.” “Well then, madame”, I spoke as I removed my leather gloves. “May we shake on it for good fortune in our upcoming endeavor?” Perhaps pleased with my quick uptake on the task at hand, the Miss responded with a smile as we both reached forward. Our hands met in agreement above the typewriter and hundreds of blank papers waiting to be filled, two weapons powerful enough to bring about a cultural revolution. Two stories interwined Prologues unknown, Epilogues unknown Their past was nothing but a disheveled thread of fate Will it unravel, will it become known?

[kimekaim]

“Nothing can be done about this”