Drive-by (In Three Acts)

Number One, In the Present

Deep within the walls of Fowler Brothers Bookstore, words scurried along, hushed whispers echoed, and letters roamed.

The small shop, surrounded by concrete and ironworks, slept by itself, living within shadows and tucked into dark corners. Its shades, half drawn behind black awnings like eyelids, preserved the tomes nestled within. A cat lazed in the window, tail flicking a metronome of beats. There was one door for two purposes – coming and going – but it was rarely used, such was the fate of a sleepy store.

Number Two, In the Past

“Won’t find me traipsing around the city streets,” Emily wrote in sighs, barely able to be heard above the wild night.

Henry confided his thoughts, pen to journal. “What I wouldn’t give to follow a wooded trail to the Merrimack.” The scent of wild apples and unfurling ferns could just be snatched from the air.

Will said nothing, concentrating on the small blotch of ink left behind by the quill and wondering if the O could be shaped into a Q and what that might do to his metered words.

Dust pulsed across the faint light cast through wavy glass.

Margaret drew photographs from her imaginings, crafted in alphabets clacked into being under fingertips tapping, her lips moved with the letters, forming gray flecked sentences.

Young Mary stitched together monsters, embroidering pieces of herself, her history, upon linen.

Tattooing awareness into the world, A.T. graffitied initials, carefully extracting the I’s and leaving the T, an H, U, and finally a G.

Elizabeth fisted words, opening their eyes to Septembers and Junes and every month of every year.

The shop sat in stillness, the quiet that of a tomb, as the writers wrote; the motes of dust stirred only by the cat.

Edgar’s heartbeat thumped beneath the floorboards.

Number Three, In the Future

“Dead? Is it dead?” the man demanded, trying to pry open the cover.

The crowd stood, wearing angry words like cloaks.

“Just leave it,” a woman muttered, brushing a hand wearily across her jaw. “There’s nothing to be done.”

Stepping from those gathered, a child veered closer only to be held back, before being pushed behind the wall of adults, their fingers inked in black.

Someone moved to chalk the line.

With nothing more to do, they wandered off, stepping carefully past the outlines littering the sidewalk, letters pooling black against concrete. But the child lingered, reaching to open the lifeless entity, brows furrowed with concentration, lips moving silently, sounding out the numbers, 4 5 1, the letters unrecognizable.

Jennifer Guyor Jowett teases stories and writers into being. She is the author of Into the Shadows, a middle grade historical fiction based on true-life events, the creator of the #dogearedbookaward, and a defender of fierce girls. Jennifer is a 7th/8th ELA teacher in the mitten state.