Emily Carter

Hi, I'm Emily Carter! Call me Em. I work in a bookshop so that next year I can maybe go to uni, and I act sometimes! I also like parties. (More about me here)

[emilygracecarter-blog]

Hot Chocolate and a Good Read || Emily and Acacia

[acaciabrantford-blog]

Acacia had been trudging through the dreadfully snow-filled and cold streets of London for about an hour, and she was desperate to get home. Considering that her home was nowhere near Central London—where she and her friends had been hanging out and shopping in—, it was absolutely difficult for her to find an easy route to get home. The crazy weather really wasn’t helping either, and after approximately an hour of tirelessly fighting the blizzard, Acacia decided that she could not bear with this weather for any longer. Upon seeing a bookshop not far from where she was currently at, the young girl’s lips curled up into a little relieved smile, and her pace began to quicken as she walked toward the bookshop. 

She figured that a bookshop should be at least warm, and though she wasn’t exactly the most avid reader out there, she did occasionally enjoy reading, and she might as well find a good book while she waited for the wind to calm down. The bookshop seemed like a perfect place for her to hide from the crazy snowstorm. Wrapping her coat tightly around herself, Acacia hesitantly pushed open the door of the bookshop, and stepped into the warm building. A sigh of relief escaped her lips as she felt the warmth spreading through her body. It felt wonderful to not be stuck in that extremely cold and bizarre weather anymore, and this was practically heaven to her right now. 

Because of her momentary joy, the girl’s mind had been only focused on the comfort that the shop could offer, and she had forgotten to shut the door, causing it to slam. Acacia jumped in surprise, glancing at the door with a shudder. She hoped that it wouldn’t slam close again, and that it would stay shut for the time being. She didn’t need any more of that crazy gust of wind that she had been fighting all the way from the Covent Garden to here. After a moment of staring at the door, she finally managed to reassure herself that it would stay shut, and breathing in another sigh of relief, she turned her head to study the bookshop that she had just entered.

It turned out that there was an employee at the shop, and the employee was currently looking at her, as well as asking her a question. With her teeth still slightly chattering because of the cold weather, Acacia managed to offer the employee a polite smile, shrugging her shoulders underneath her coat.

“I’m alright, I suppose,” she remarked in a friendly voice, as if she was showing the store employee gratitude for actually asking her about her well being. “Feeling extremely cold, but I think I’ll be okay in a few minutes. Thanks for asking, and how about yourself?”

Acacia knew that it was pretty much customary for a store employee to ask about how their customers were doing, but she was still grateful that this employee had asked, especially because she probably knew about how bad the weather was. She gave the employee a nod of her head to prove that she was going to be fine, before walking further into the store.

The young blonde glanced around the book-filled shop, her eyes taking in all these precious books. Both her parents loved reading, and growing up, she and Zach had been taught that books were precious objects, and that reading was important. Of course, the two siblings weren’t as crazy about reading as their parents were, but the fact that books and reading were two important things was sort of drilled into Acacia’s head, and she grew accustomed to it, which explained why she viewed books as precious things. 

[emilygracecarter-blog]

Emily shivered as the cold blast of air from the door reached her part of the store. It really was nasty out there, and she wasn't looking forward to going home in that storm. She threw a glance at the back corner of the room, where a small table covered with a red and green tablecloth held an electric kettle and some baked treats, then turned back towards the girl. "I'm doing great! And I think I have a cure for the cold!" she answered with a grin.

As she beckoned the girl towards the table, she subconsciously assessed her appearance, quickly scanning her face to see if she looked familiar. She didn't, which made Emily a little bit relieved; she wouldn't have to try too hard to keep up an act. The girl's blonde hair was covered in large snowflakes, glittering a bit in the dim bookshop light; she had a sweet, friendly face and seemed quite young - definitely a few years younger than Emily.

Emily reached the small back table before the other girl, and picked up two mugs. The mugs each had a little waving snowman on it, and Emily smiled at the familiarity - her family had the same set of mugs back home in Luton. "Do you like hot chocolate?" she asked the girl, turning towards her to hand her one of the mugs. "If you don't, we also have tea, of course. And coffee. Just help yourself to anything on this table, because it's for our customers."

She lifted the electric kettle and filled her mug with steaming hot water, then offered to do the same for the other girl. Her hands felt the warmth of the water through the mug, and she smiled, setting the kettle down and then surveying her choices; there was hot chocolate, of course, but perhaps she wanted one of the teas. Generally, the employees of the bookstore weren't supposed to drink or eat anything on the table, but it was getting incredibly close to closing time, and it was obvious that there weren't going to be too many more customers there to complain, so of course Emily wanted to take advantage of the opportunity. She decided on hot chocolate after all, selecting a red packet that promised candy cane flavour - she had tea at home, and could drink it whenever she wanted, so hot chocolate was more of a treat.

"I'm Emily, by the way," she said, introducing herself to the girl as she took a spoon and began to stir her hot chocolate mix into the steaming water. It felt a little strange to be getting even as personal as a first name with a customer, but Emily was glad for it; she suddenly realized that with that weather, they could be there together a lot later than closing time. "Whenever I meet someone new, I always ask them a random question, just for fun. You ready? Your question is..." Emily glanced around the bookshop for inspiration, but she didn't want to ask a typical question like, What's your favourite book? Instead, spying a travel photography book, she asked the girl, "What's the most interesting place you've ever been?"

As she listened to the answer, she stirred a little cream into her hot chocolate and then set the spoon down, finally bringing the mug towards her lips. For a second, she simply held it up a few inches from her face, watching the steam curl in wisps towards the ceiling as she breathed in the delicious minty chocolate scent, but then she took her first sip. She tried to be incredibly careful, and breathed in a lot as she drank a very tiny amount, but she still burned her tongue. "Ow!" she said, already reaching for the cream so she could add some more in the hopes that it would cool the drink down. Her second sip was much better, and she was actually able to enjoy it. "Mmm..." She said, closing her eyes as the rich flavour filled her mouth. She couldn't remember ever having tried the candy cane flavour before, but she decided that it was one of the most delicious things she had tasted; it left a very pleasant minty aftertaste that she definitely enjoyed.

Choosing a brownie from the tray of goodies, she sat on one of the chairs beside the table and took a bite. "So what brings you here?" she asked after swallowing and taking another sip of hot chocolate. "Looking for a book, or just wanted shelter? What do you like to read?"

[emilygracecarter-blog]

Hot Chocolate and a Good Read || Emily and Acacia

It was one of those days where time just seemed to crawl by, millimetre by millimetre. Emily had looked up at the digital clock five times in the past minute and the last digit still hadn’t changed. She began to make a game out of it, something she remembered doing as a child whenever she woke up before her parents and had to wait until exactly seven o’clock before she was allowed to wake up; she guessed in her head, It’s gonna change… Now! And then it wouldn’t. Now! And still it wouldn’t. When the number finally changed, Emily began silently counting the seconds, testing her mental measure of time. One Picadilly, two Picadilly… She wasn’t very accurate; she reached sixty long before the minute changed again.

Emily sighed loudly and looked away from the clock. It was so close to the end of her shift, yet so very, very far, and the bookshop had been almost completely devoid of customers for the past hour. Generally, in this situation, she would pass the time by picking a book off the shelf and reading it until the shop became more busy. But her manager had been hovering around for quite a while - doing some sort of calculation, Emily assumed by the way he was carrying around that notepad and tapping his chin with a pen (he did that every time he did mental maths) - and when he was near, Emily was certainly not going to read the merchandise. She loved her manager and all, because he was always very kind and cheerful, but he was constantly worrying that the books would be ruined before they could be bought. It was sort of strange, in her opinion; if she ruined a book, she would gladly pay for it anyway. The only reason she didn’t buy all of the books she wanted to read was because, unless she had some reason to, she wasn’t planning to pay for books she could easily read for free.

So there she sat, drumming her fingers on the counter and glancing at the clock every once in a while. Thirty-eight minutes and counting until her shift’s end. Emily imagined that her manager was a shapeshifter and that every time he tapped his pen against his chin, he changed forms. In her head he was a pirate, then a bikini model, then a little girl with a balloon… She ran out of ideas before he stopped tapping. Finally, with thirty-one minutes left of her shift, her manager told her he was going to update the website and left her alone with the books. She counted to ten after he’d closed the door behind him, then went to the historical fiction shelf to choose something to read.

The Pillars of the Earth, Memoirs of a Geisha, The Kite Runner… So many good titles to choose from. Sometimes she spent more time choosing books than actually reading them. As a kid visiting the library, her mother had always needed to restrict her to “only ten books!” or she would check out the entire children’s section. Emily had just picked up Kommandant’s Girl and was reading the blurb on the back of the book when her manager re-entered the store with a deep frown on his face; his eyebrows were knotted together and he was walking just a little too quickly. She put the book down guiltily so he wouldn’t notice she’d been holding it.

"I have to go," he told her, not seeming to notice the all-too-innocent look on her face. "My wife's car just got stuck in a ditch and she needs me to help her out. With this weather," he gestured across the store at the large window, "it could take a while, so I don't know how long I'll be. It'll probably be after closing time. Emily looked out the window - for the first time, she realized, in probably about an hour. Her mouth dropped open. It had been snowing when she'd arrived for work, but now it was coming down like a blizzard. She couldn't even see across the street! It was a wall of white, and she suddenly wondered how he would get anywhere in this storm.

"Here, I'll leave you with the keys. When your shift is up, I'm trusting you to close down shop and lock up for me. Can you do that?" He handed her his lanyard which held an array of keys, each one marked so that it was obvious which door they corresponded to. Emily took it, slightly awed that he was trusting her with this instead of just letting her off early and closing down himself. "Yeah," Emily assured him, "I can do that!"

"Great. Leave the keys in my office when you're done, and go out the back door. But before you go, check the weather warnings on the telly, would you? If the storm gets any worse, just stay here. I wouldn't want to have to dig you out of a ditch too!" He seemed a little antsy, and Emily knew he was really worried about his wife, so she said, "Yes, sir! You know I can handle the shop. You can count on me. Now get going!"

She'd never seen anyone flee the scene faster. The poor man was so worried about his wife that he didn't even bother to stop when he knocked a couple of books off a display - now that was uncharacteristic of him. As Emily leaned over to pick them up and set them back on the display, the front door to the bookstore opened and a young girl walked in, covered in snow. A strong gust of wind blew swirling snow crystals in through the doorway and held the door open for a little longer than normal before a gust from the opposite direction slammed it shut again.

“Hello, how are you?” Emily asked the girl - a typical thing for a store employee to ask, but she meant it sincerely this time. "The weather out there looks nasty! You alright?"

[emilygracecarter-blog]

I think I'm going to cry!

My cousin told me to try this game, "Can Your Pet?" and I just...

[germain-durand-deactivated20130]

A New Face - [Germain and Emily]

[germain-durand-deactivated20130]

Germain breathed on his already freezing extremities, trying to warm them, he’d never had a taste for gloves and chose rather to deal with the freezing cold than the discomfort of a glove. “Hey, are you alright?” a young girl he hadn’t noticed had taken up the space beside him. He looked down at her, she was tall, but not nearly as tall as he was. Young as well, must have been fresh out of college, she looked about the same age as Jen, somewhere in her early twenties. Something set this girl out from the others though, perhaps it was her hair, bright and red, it caught the eye when the sky had darkened and what light remained bounced off her flaming red hair like some fiery halo.

He chuckled, “no, no, just incredibly bored,” he waved his hand a bit trying to explain his predicament, “trying to quit smoking as well - didn’t realize with drawl would be so bad.” He exhaled heavily, a puff of warm air filling the air before him before dispersing and becoming invisible. He glanced down at her again, “were you here to watch the game too?” he inquired, pointing back at the glowing bar, he’d seen her in the bar as she flitted between the fans like some hyperactive butterfly. Frankly, he found it immensely amusing as half returned her flirtations, and the other half left the bar, or made excuses to move elsewhere within the bar.

“What’re you doing out here? It looked like you were having the time of your life in there,” when he went to bars for the sake of getting numbers, it rarely was ever a dull moment. He was like a lion hunting for prey, he doubted that just because the genders changed that the hunt would be any less interesting. Perhaps even more so considering it was the men who typically bought the drinks, which meant free drinks, and he wasn’t aware that men played coy like the girls he typically found himself in the company of did.

He glanced back into the bar through the frosted windows, peering between the already strung up Christmas lights, already the Londoners were taking out their Christmas decorations, preparing for the holidays, Christmas shopping had begun, a steady stream of tourists were arriving daily, and the playing of every Christmas carol known to man played repeatedly on the radios.

He glanced at Stanley who was still drunk but conscious, Germain presumed he was still to busy talking about the game to actually pass out, for this he was grateful, Germain was strong, but not nearly strong enough to lift Stanley. The heavier set boy despite being almost two years younger, had always been heavier than Germain. Stanley was built like an ox, which at first made the coaches almost laugh in disbelief when he decided to try for the team, but later, when they discovered his uncanny ability to almost predict where the ball went, had given him the position of Goalie. 

A group of younger gentlemen walked by sucking on cigarettes, the thing Germain desired more than anything at the moment. He ground his teeth together trying not to breathe in the fumes. His lips pursed and he tensed up knowing if he smelt just a whiff of it, he’d wind up on the floor begging for one. He watched warily as they passed by in front of them, exhaling quietly once they had. He returned his gaze to the girl, “did you want to get out of here?” he gestured at his car, “I have to get my friend home, but I was hoping to go do something afterwards; did you want to join?” he ran a hand through his hair it was gelled back already, but he enjoyed the feeling of his hands pushing his hair back, pulling them lightly from the roots. “I’m Germain by the way.”

[emilygracecarter-blog]

The stranger's chuckle brought a little laugh out of Emily as well, and set her at ease.  "That's really good, though!" she said. "I'm glad you're quitting. Smoking killed one of my uncles, so I don't really like to see people doing it. But don't you have gum or something for it? Or those strange fake cigarettes?" A gust of chilly wind blew her hair into her face, and she tucked it behind her ear before putting her hands into the pockets of her jacket for warmth. "No, I'm not much into football," she answered. "Sometimes I watch the big matches with my friends, but other than that... You must be a fan, though, right?" She now recalled seeing him with the other fans at the beginning of the night; he's seemed just as excited as the rest.

"Oh, I was just meeting people," Emily explained dismissively, punctuating her sentence with a shrug. "I got bored." It was only a lie by omission, really, so she didn't feel bad about it, until something struck her. "Wait... You saw me? How much did you see?" She'd done a few... interesting things already that night; she'd had a few new ideas she'd wanted to try out. One of these included staring at a guy for several minutes, and when he started to notice, she licked her lips and made a fake cell phone call, saying, "I think we've found the perfect candidate for our... experiment." She'd never seen anyone flee the scene faster. But perhaps the stranger had only seen the good parts, like when she'd gotten a number from a guy she'd actually found attractive.

At that very moment, Artie, the sports fan she'd talked to earlier, chose to walk out of the bar. "Oh my god," Emily whispered to the stranger with a laugh, stepping closer to him and hiding her face from Artie. "Quick, pretend to kiss me. Well, I mean, don't pretend, just-" Artie was coming towards them. She broke off and pressed her lips to the stranger's, wrapping her arms around his neck. Her eyes were open and watching as she waited for Artie to pass, but she snapped them closed when Artie looked their way. She felt a rush, but it wasn't so much because of the kiss - it was more because of the acting, and the excitement of hiding from Artie.

When Artie had gone, she pulled back, laughing again - a little nervously this time - as she waited to see if she'd freaked the stranger out as well. "Oh my god, I am so sorry," she said, shaking her head, "but that guy... He was pretty angry with me by the time I'd finished talking to him, so I didn't exactly want to strike up another conversation." She stared up at the stranger searchingly, ready to make her excuses and leave if she'd made him uncomfortable.

She noticed real discomfort on his face as a group of men walked by in a cloud of smoke, and she waved her hand around in an attempt to clear the air. Her eyebrows knotted together in concern as she saw how tense he was; she remembered when one of her friends had been going through nicotine withdrawal, and how touchy he'd been whenever he was feeling those cravings. Just as she was about to ask him if he wanted to go someplace with fresher air, he asked the same thing of her. "Yeah," she said, maybe a little too hastily - all thoughts of turning in early were long gone, and her sense of excitement at the idea of something that would alleviate her boredom had returned with a vengeance. It had been far too long since she'd gone anywhere with a really attractive guy, and her loneliness made her a little overeager to accept this stranger's invitation. "Yeah, I'd like that. If you're not, you know, freaked out by me or anything..." She laughed at that as if it was nothing but a joke, concealing the self-doubt she was feeling.

She bit her lip as she watched him run his hand through his hair. Yes, she definitely found him incredibly attractive. And maybe he seemed a bit old for her - there was no way he was under twenty-five - but it would be fine if she just went with him tonight to see what happened, right? Besides, he had a very interesting name, so he couldn't be an uninteresting person! "Nice to meet you, Germain," she said sincerely. "I'm Emily." And now that identities had been exchanged, it was question time. "So. I have this thing where every time I meet someone new, I ask them a really random and sometimes personal question. You ready? Your question is... What's your favourite tree? And why?" She almost laughed as she asked this question. It had really been the first thing that came to her mind, but it was a legitimate question that could have a legitimate answer - Emily had a favourite tree: the tree in her backyard as a kid, where she'd built a tree house with her father. Germain's answer would definitely give her a clue as to what kind of person he was. Would he be confused, and say, "Who has favourite trees?" Would he think of it as a joke? Would he actually have a favourite tree, and a story to go with it? She awaited his response, grinning at the almost absurdity of her own question.

[germain-durand-deactivated20130]

A New Face - [Germain and Emily]

The bar was full tonight, set in Central London that was expected especially considering it was a football night, an event that didn’t need to be explained to Europeans, the sport was huge, it was like you weren’t a true European if you didn’t watch some football - just like it was scandalous to have Canadians not watching hockey, or Americans not watching baseball. Together in the crowded bar there were no boundaries between strangers, for the moment they were all family, ready to celebrate huge successes, or drink away the sorrow of a loss as a group.

Though the game had ended an hour ago, people still lingered celebrating the victory of Manchester United, or drinking to the failure of Reading. Germain having had no preference over the matter was just the one who had to sit through Stanley’s drunken ramblings over the brilliance of ManU. Stanley was in no way an alcoholic, he didn’t share the same love of alcohol as Germain, but he did share Germain’s enthusiasm over football. So being the lightweight that he was, Stanley was mere sips away from passing out leaving the responsibility of returning Stanley home to Germain, a fact he resented.

Having already rehashed most of the game with Stanley and the two strangers that had joined them in talking the pros and cons of the game, Germain was bored and quickly becoming antsy. Nothing against Manchester, but he didn’t cheer the team on, for Germain, the only victory he cared for was that of Newcastle United, and on occasion Liverpool. A plethora of empty glasses littered the small round table, leaving Germain to tap his fingers impatiently on his leg. He longed to leave, find something new to talk about rather than how close the game was and “thank god their goalie blundered”.

Germain out the window on the door, the black of night had already dawned on the city. Lit up by street lights and the glow of the warm lights that escaped into the cold night; Germain could barely make out the drunken fans celebrating the first of many victories in the city. He looked warily at his car parked right outside the pub, nights like tonight were the nights he feared for his car the most. “Germain!” Stanley called at him, his inebriated state making him shout louder than necessary, “did you see that game winning kick!” Germain rolled his eyes, this would be the fourth time Stanley had attempted to rehash the game to him. Germain decided he hated Stanley’s drunken state, regularly a genuinely great human being, but drunk as he was, Germain absolutely hated him.

Germain smiled at Stanley before getting up and exiting the bar, he needed a breath of fresh air, drunk was only fun when Germain was drunk as well. Watching the air from his lungs form hot clouds in the cold air, he reached for his cigarettes, only to be reminded that he was quitting. “Perfect,” he muttered, “just perfect.”

[emilygracecarter-blog]

Emily didn't spend a lot of time in bars - it was something she only did when she was feeling exceptionally bored or lonely. Tonight, her excuse was that she was more bored than she could ever remember being. She'd had plans to go to a museum with her cousin, but then her cousin's boyfriend had invited himself along, and Emily wasn't his biggest fan. Her back-up plan had been to spend the evening reading, but it was obvious as soon as she'd started the first book that she wasn't going to be able to focus on it. So she'd taken a cab alone to a popular bar, knowing that if there was any place she could be entertained, it was there.

She wasn't going to the bar to drink. She would likely carry a drink, just so she wouldn't look like she was begging drinks from people, but she would never actually drink from it; she generally tried to ingest as little alcohol as possible. A few years ago, she'd gotten drunk to impress her school friends, and it had been a terrifying experience; first, she'd found herself confessing some of her secrets to strangers and friends alike - which could have ended badly if she hadn't been so good at lying. Later on, she'd spent time kissing several of her peers, girls included. She'd ended the night passed out in a puddle of her own vomit. The next morning, with a pounding headache, she'd vowed to never get drunk again - losing control like that was one thing she could never let herself do. Besides, acting drunk seemed to her to be much more fun than actually being drunk!

What Emily did like to do in bars, though, was meet people. And act, of course. And she'd found a way to combine both things into a little game she liked to call "Breaking Point." There were two ways to play the game; in the first type of Breaking Point, the type she played most often, she measured the length of time it took her to creep someone out enough that they made up excuses to leave her. She would use crazy pick-up lines on guys with wedding bands; she would tell morbid stories to the happiest guy in the bar; she would pretend that she was lesbian and attracted to a woman who was obviously straight. The second type of Breaking Point was quite the opposite; Emily played to see how quickly she could get a phone number. Sometimes, she played the second version on people who seemed particularly nice; people she actually expected she might want to talk to again. But other times, she played it as an extra challenge: could she get a number from the depressed-looking man sitting by himself at a table in the corner? How about from that exceptionally attractive guy who already had a plethora of women crowding around him?

Emily played both versions that night, and in a span of about an hour she'd broken three people and gotten two phone numbers. She was on a roll! She had arrived at the bar near the end of the football match, which was fine by her; football really wasn't her cup of tea. Sure, she often watched matches with some of her friends, but it had never been something she could really get into. At the moment, however, with the man to whom she was currently talking, she was a football fanatic - but she was rooting for the wrong team. The man - Artie, he'd said his name was - was probably in his early thirties, and talked very animatedly. Emily had only spent about five minutes watching him discuss Manchester United's win before starting a conversation; she knew exactly how to break him. She would act the idiot, the one who pretended to know everything there was to know about football but really knew nothing - it would peeve him more than anything else. "Are you serious?" she'd said to him. "ManU is a sorry excuse for a football team. Liverpool, on the other hand..." And thus, she'd started a debate that had only gone on for about seven minutes before Artie had walked away, making an obscene gesture as he went. Emily didn't play fair when it came to debates.

She was suddenly very bored again, though. It was all too easy. She barely had time to properly get into her new character before the person cracked like a clam. Sighing, she set down her untouched drink on the nearest table and headed for the exit. Perhaps it would be a good idea for her to turn in early tonight. At least in sleep she couldn't really be bored.

The night was cold, and Emily found herself shivering as she stood outside, debating whether or not she was really ready to go home. Her toes were turning to ice in those open heels she'd chosen to wear; she wiggled them around in an attempt to warm them up as she checked the time on her phone, only to find three voice-mails from her cousin. Okay, so maybe she hadn't actually told her cousin that she wasn't going to the museum... As she was about to press play on the first message, she heard the voice of a man a few paces to her left, and she jumped a little. She hadn't noticed him there. He looked very unhappy about something, and the way he was muttering to himself made Emily worry just a little bit. "Hey, are you alright?" she asked, moving slightly towards him.

[emilygracecarter-blog]

Drawing Parallels || Emily and Elliot

It was one of those days where time just seemed to crawl by, millimetre by millimetre. Emily had looked up at the digital clock five times in the past minute and the last digit still hadn't changed. She began to make a game out of it, something she remembered doing as a child whenever she woke up before her parents and had to wait until exactly seven o'clock before she was allowed to wake up; she guessed in her head, It's gonna change... Now! And then it wouldn't. Now! And still it wouldn't. When the number finally changed, Emily began silently counting the seconds, testing her mental measure of time. One Picadilly, two Picadilly... She wasn't very accurate; she reached sixty long before the minute changed again.

Emily sighed loudly and looked away from the clock. It was so close to the end of her shift, yet so very, very far, and the bookshop had been almost completely devoid of customers for the past hour. Generally, in this situation, she would pass the time by picking a book off the shelf and reading it until the shop became more busy. But her manager had been hovering around for quite a while - doing some sort of calculation, Emily assumed by the way he was carrying around that notepad and tapping his chin with a pen (he did that every time he did mental maths) - and when he was near, Emily was certainly not going to read the merchandise. She loved her manager and all, because he was always very kind and cheerful, but he was constantly worrying that the books would be ruined before they could be bought. It was sort of strange, in her opinion; if she ruined a book, she would gladly pay for it anyway. The only reason she didn't buy all of the books she wanted to read was because, unless she had some reason to, she wasn't planning to pay for books she could easily read for free.

So there she sat, drumming her fingers on the counter and glancing at the clock every once in a while. Thirty-eight minutes and counting until her shift's end. Emily imagined that her manager was a shapeshifter and that every time he tapped his pen against his chin, he changed forms. In her head he was a pirate, then a bikini model, then a little girl with a balloon... Surprisingly, she ran out of ideas before he stopped tapping. Finally, with thirty-one minutes left of her shift, her manager told her he was going to update the website and left her alone with the books. She counted to ten after he'd closed the door behind him, then went to the historical fiction shelf to choose something to read.

The Pillars of the Earth, Memoirs of a Geisha, The Kite Runner... So many good titles to choose from. Sometimes she spent more time choosing books than actually reading them. As a kid visiting the library, her mother had always needed to restrict her to "only ten books!" or she would check out the entire children's section. Emily had just picked up Kommandant's Girl and was reading the blurb on the back of the book when she noticed another employee across the room organizing the science fiction section.

Elliot. She always forgot about Elliot. He was so very quiet and all she ever saw him do was organize and dust the shelves - from what she'd seen, she was sure he was terrified of working the cash and dealing with strangers all day - so it was easy to forget he was even there. Emily suddenly felt terrible for forgetting about him, though. She knew what it was like to be invisible, and as much as sometimes she wished she could be invisible once again, she knew how lonely it was.

"Hey, Elliot?" Emily asked, suddenly finding herself walking towards him. "Our shift's almost done... Do you have plans afterwards? Because I was thinking of going somewhere for a bite to eat, and maybe to the park for a little bit, and I'd love it if you'd join me... If you'd like to, that is."

[emilygracecarter-blog]

Not Alone || Emily and Conan

[conan-beckerman-blog]

Conan could hardly believe it when the petite redhead pinpointed the name that had been worn into the structure of the bench. He traced the letters with coarse tip of his finger for a few moments, taking in each incise before glancing up towards her, rapidly feeling extraordinarily unsolicited on the bench she had ‘claimed as her own’. “But what if Emily Carter is an alias?” He thought out loud, pressing his lips together for a long moment as he squirmed in his seat and shuffled over to permit her some room.

“What if Emily Carter is actually an assassin? She came from Israel, couldn’t find her way around London but on a cold, winters morning she found this bench—she sat down, etched her real identity into the foundations of a park bench. She thought that the mark would remain forever, it would be a reminder of her inner-self, the self that no one could ever see for the safety of her family. She left England soon enough, knowing that a little part of her true self remained astray in the immense foundations of the world,” Conan spoke, quirking one eyebrow as if to note the younger girl’s reaction.

He knew all too well that he spoke too much. He spoke to distract people – to distract himself – from his wavering thoughts; half of what poured in riddles from his mouth was nonsense, but the ideas were tame enough to keep a conversation going for more than a few minutes. That was why Conan managed to make friends, regardless of the lack of earnestness about his exterior.

A faded smile played on his lips when she allowed him to share the bench, and he shuffled over a few more inches, his dark eyes wandering over towards the books she had placed on the opposite side of the bench; he copied her, placing his journal down on the left hand side of him. “Emily Carter, huh?” He repeated, finally concluding the girl’s full identity was exposed, “Conan Beckerman—resident London philanthropist, director and overall annoyance.”

Conan’s attention snapped back at the girl’s attention, his lips parted in bewilderment as he took a long moment to assess the girls gravity. “You can’t just ask a guy a question like that an expect an answer straight away…” He whispered, almost to himself as he pressed his finger to his lips in thought. “Telekinesis—I don’t want to know the persons thoughts, just… Tamper with them a little, y’know? I’d tamper with everything; I would be the words most aggravating person.” Conan smirked, the prospect playing on his lips in the form of a hearty smile, “How about you, strange lady?”

[emilygracecarter-blog]

Emily raised an eyebrow as he spun the tale of Emily Carter, the assassin. This man seemed to be so much like her in so many ways, and yet so very different. She carefully concealed her reaction to the story behind a smile, not wanting to let on how close he was to the truth: Emily had moved to London from Luton, and had felt so alienated until the day she had discovered this clearing. She'd sat down and etched her name into that park bench, hoping that perhaps it would remain forever; it was a reminder of her inner-self, the self that she never revealed to anyone else - the self that was never even exposed except in this very clearing. The self that she seemed to lose sight of more and more every day, even now that she was actively seeking it.

"As brilliant as that would be," Emily said, "I assure you that I am Emily Carter, and I am no assassin. I rescue earthworms from the sidewalk when the sun is threatening to roast them; I feel ill when I step on anything that makes a sound suspiciously like the crunching of a snail shell. I, literally, couldn't hurt a fly. Great story, though!" she said sincerely. She laughed a little as she let her fingers glide over the seat of the bench, tracing the deep impressions left behind by faceless people. Among the dedications to lovers and the declarations of adoration, she found one specific carving that had somehow always been interesting to her. Auggie loves Nova, it read in a tight, controlled hand.

Without thinking, she let the words she wanted to say fall from her mouth, forgetting to think about them or change them to hide the truth. "I used to do that too, all the time. Make up stories for these names, I mean. See this one here?" She pointed at the carving she'd been tracing. "I wrote this story where Auggie was this poor, hopeless boy who loved someone who could never love him back. A girl he’d always adored but could never have. It kind of tragic, of course, but the best stories always are. Except maybe one day Auggie was able to get through to Nova. Maybe she finally fell in love with him too, and they ran off to be together, finally conquering their-"

Emily broke off and shrugged, suddenly embarrassed. She stared at the ground and kicked at the dirt again, biting her lip before saying, "I don't know, it's just something I used to do for fun.

"Nice to meet you, Conan Beckerman, " Emily said, meeting his eyes again to give him a grin. "You're not an annoyance to me! And when you say 'director', what do you mean? As in a film director? Because that is incredibly cool. As for me, I'm an aimless secondary school graduate and sometimes actress currently working in a bookshop while I try to figure out what I'm going to study in university." Emily almost clapped her hands over her mouth. Why had she said so much? Why hadn't she made something up? God, it was the clearing. She was so used to being able to do and say anything there that she couldn't force herself to stop just because someone else was there. "Sorry," she said, "I'm kind of boring."

Emily laughed aloud at his reaction to her question. "Take your time, by all means!" she told him. She was excited to hear his answer, though. A person's dream superpower could speak volumes about his personality. And Conan's reply didn't disappoint; Emily thought it was a perfect fit from what she knew about him so far. "Sounds like a lot of fun, but I think it might influence my answer; if you were granted telekinesis, I might need to have a power that counteracts it, just to be sure that I wasn't tampered with... But seriously, as for me..." Emily, too, had to think about it for a little bit. She wanted to lie, but she'd been truthful so far, so she decided she may as well continue her streak.  "I... A while ago I might have said shapeshifting. I'm into acting, you know, so how cool would it be to look every part? But now... I think I'd want to be able to fly. I could escape, fly anywhere, see the world. It would be so peaceful, way up there above it all." Emily leaned her head back on the bench and closed her eyes for a while, just imagining it. Then she sat back up, shaking her head a little bit as if to clear her head from the daydream and shrugging self-consciously once again. "I don't know. It would be nice."

[emilygracecarter-blog]

Not Alone || Emily and Conan

[conan-beckerman-blog]

Since the unsounded occurrence, Conan had suffered from visual nightmares; they were nightmares that made little sagacity to him, for he couldn’t remember if they were fiction or in fact actuality. Still, they seemed realistic enough to arouse fears in Conan’s subconscious during the night, so he had motive to be hesitant of story his family had fed him on his previous injuries.  The unwanted hours of darkness had come all too soon, in fact, they had come without warning for Conan. He had drifted off to sleep inadvertently whilst playing a cheap app on his iPhone—that would teach him to pick monotonous applications and dismiss the price. It was merely a few hours later when Conan awoke, sweat lining his features and his throat raw from screaming. He couldn’t withstand the walls which felt as though they were enclosing on him; he couldn’t withstand the thought of staying in a room unaided, in the dark.

Conan leapt up and snatched his journal from the side along with a light jacket, and shoved his feet into his aged, tattered converse. Without thinking, he left his apartment, finding that there was no comfort in the midnight streets. The hue of the neighbour lampposts only contributed to the disturbing atmosphere of the streets, but fortunately for Conan they worked as an tremendous source of luminosity. He sat himself down, pulled out a pen from his pocket and began to scribble unsounded words down in his journal:

They’re still here. After years of hard work and pointless endeavours in an effort to avert my attention; the screams of people still ring in my ears. They wake me from my slumber on occasion. That’s when it begins – I drown in the darkness, and then, the wan walls of my apartment begin to enfold me. It’s as though I’m being consumed, being suffocated and deprived of my one and only life source. Why does this keep happening? Last night it happened again, I awoke in the middle of the night; sweat lined the structure of my sheets, a product of recounting my indefinite past through nightmares. The four walls began to contract around me.  As they crept closer every inch reminded me how they aimed to startle me, aimed to trap me, aimed to hurt me. I screamed, crawled from my mattress, and later, found myself here, writing,  on the edge of a wooden bench in a park I’m all too familiar with. The feeling of entrapment constantly plagues my mental health – I want out.

I am haunted by my unknown past, indifferent to the present, terrified by the future. Candidly speaking, I am scared that someone will soon see behind my disguise – the facade I’ve consciously built to protect my fragile, panicky and undoubtedly pathetic centre. What happened to me?

Hours passed before Conan finally tore himself away from his miniature, moleskin journal and that was only by force. The accent of an unfamiliar girl struck his attention; Conan’s head snapped up, his auburn eyes, tired but falsely full of light. He snapped his journal closed, quirked his brow and pursed his lips as he took a long, readjusting moment to observe the girl’s behaviours before looking back down to the bench. “No,” Conan stated, zealously looking for a name etched into the wooden bench, “If it was yours, there would be a name.. You’re welcome to share it, however, Miss Lady.”

[emilygracecarter-blog]

After noticing the speed with which the stranger closed the journal in his lap, Emily relaxed the grip she'd held on her own, allowing her books to come into view again. If he was that worried about keeping his own writing a secret, she knew she could trust him to understand if she wanted to keep hers to herself as well. She still didn't like the idea of someone invading a place she thought of as her own, but something about this man's reactions seemed to put her at ease; he seemed to be putting up just as many walls as Emily was.

"Yes there is," Emily said, more teasingly than defensively, as she walked towards the bench. Without even needing to look, she found her name where it had been carved along with countless others into the bench. She tapped the letters as she introduced herself.

"My name is Emily Carter. And that's what it says there, see?" It was one of only a few names that stood alone - most of the names were in pairs, seeming to have been carved there by lovers, or by teenage girls who carefully etched initials into the worn seat and encircled them with a lopsided heart: L.M. + A.B. or A.H. loves E.J. It had taken her months after she'd found the place to finally write her name on the bench; her first problem had been not knowing what to carve it with, but she'd been even more worried about somehow getting into trouble or about ruining the bench.

She remembered the rush she'd felt when she'd borrowed a knife from her aunt's kitchen and walked to the clearing as if hiding a secret. Cutting into the bench had demanded a lot more effort than she'd expected, and she'd found herself still in the park finishing the final "r" of her last name over an hour later, but it had been worth it for the feeling of satisfaction she'd had afterwards. The place hadn't seemed rightfully hers until that day, but with her name newly etched into the bench, she'd felt like she could truly claim it as her own.

Regarding the stranger as if contemplating something deeply, Emily said, "Hm . . . I think you look nice enough. Sure, I'll share the bench!" She took a seat, setting her books on the side farthest away from the man. She kicked her feet back and forth in the patch of grass-less earth beneath the bench, digging in slightly and then refilling the newly-made indentation before stilling her legs.

"So I have this thing where every time I meet someone new, I ask them a really random question, just for fun. Your question is . . . Hm." She thought for a while, running her fingers over the familiar carvings in the bench for a moment as she thought of a good question. "If you could have one super power, what would it be?"

[emilygracecarter-blog]

Not Alone || Emily and Cataleya

[cataleyamoseleyold]

Cataleya didn’t enjoy getting up early - she was pretty sure most people didn’t. But she’d been up since five - her body never seemed to want to let her sleep past eight. And the fact that her room mate and her boyfriend liked to have obnoxiously loud sex at the strangest times never helped - she’d woken to the headboard slapping against the adjoining wall of their rooms, and some rather colourful language. Cat had banged on the wall, threatened violence, then dressed and escaped. She didn’t want to be there when they were finished - the boyfriend would undoubtedly come out to the kitchen to make tea for their little post-coital cuddlefest, and he’d undoubtedly hit on Cataleya in that casual, joking way he always seemed to. It wasn’t like Cataleya could fault him for trying to be friendly - she just didn’t want his friendship, or his lame lines.

So out of the house she went, winding a scarf around her neck, despite the uncharacteristic warmth of the morning. Cataleya did not like the cold, no matter how mild it apparently was. That was one thing Cat couldn’t stand about London - the cold. She was made for warmer climates, not ones like this. But she was here for her education - and undoubtedly she’d stay here once she got her degree. She had considered going to America for work, but what would that achieve? The weather was just as cold there as it was here. And Cataleya didn’t want to spend money unnecessarily. That was another thing she hated - spending for the sake of spending.

Cat had stopped in at a coffee shop, picking herself up a black coffee and a croissant for breakfast - she wasn’t going to get back to the apartment to eat and still be on time for her morning lecture. She then headed towards the park, finding she had a couple of hours to kill - it wasn’t raining, so she decided the park would be nicer than sitting in some cafe with a bunch of hipster kids. The park was always quiet in the morning - it was the afternoons you had to watch out for, when school was out, and there were screaming kids everywhere. Cat wasn’t a big fan of children - she babysat sometimes for the neighbour, but those times were few and far between. Plus the kids were usually asleep by the time she got there, and stayed that way the entire night. She didn’t even know their names.

Cat had settled herself on a bench near a copse of trees, away from the other morning park goers. One or two had kids in prams, jogging or walking, desperately trying to shift a few pounds so they wouldn’t feel so guilty come Christmas. Cataleya hadn’t wanted to be involved in that - as it often happened, one would probably stop to draw breath, need to sit down, and Cat would be on the nearest bench. She would then be forced to make awkward conversation, force smiles and talk about how cute their baby was. No thank you - Cataleya wanted to eat her breakfast in peace.

So she did just that, sipping her coffee and chomping on the croissant on the lonely park bench, glad for the privacy. She put the trash in her bag, since there wasn’t a bin in sight, then withdrew her heavy text book and her packet of marlboros. Cataleya was a very occasional smoker - she deplored the habit in others, but she couldn’t help herself sometimes. Sometimes she just felt like a smoke - and this happened to be one of those times. So there she sat, smoking and reading the odd passage from her text book, until someone decided to come bumbling along and ruin her peace and quiet. When a voice sounded behind her, sounding kind of possessive, Cataleya rolled her eyes, blowing out a stream of smoke before she tapped ash from the cigarette onto the edge of the seat, turning her head to look at the young woman. 

“Is it, now?”

[emilygracecarter-blog]

The smell of the smoke hit Emily's nostrils before she saw the cigarette hanging from the woman's hand. Normally, she didn't mind the smell of smoke, but this clearing was the only place she thought of as her own, and the smoke was so intrusive and alien in such a serene area. It interfered with the very atmosphere, masking the sweet smells of flowers and pine and creating a very unpleasant lump within Emily's throat; she had to force herself not to scrunch her nose up in distaste. As the woman tapped cigarette ash onto her beloved bench, an unexpected pang of alarm caused her to break character and blurt out, "Don't-"

It was too late. Emily let out a deep sigh as she realized how ridiculous she was acting. It was a park bench, and the lady was right; she couldn't really claim it as her own or do anything to stop someone from soiling it with cigarette ash.

"I . . . Sorry, no, you're right. It isn't mine. It's just, I've been coming here almost every day since I was thirteen, and I've never seen anyone else here before, so it just . . . This feels like home to me, and it's weird to see someone else here, so."

There. The truth had come out in a disorganized rush, and she hadn't even considered making up some sort of lie. She was still incredibly flustered, and was finding it difficult to control how she should act; this was a place where for years she'd been free to be herself, and it was strange to have to force herself to think about how she was going to come across to this stranger.

The woman seemed friendly enough, and Emily always wanted to make a good impression - what if they were to meet again? So, resisting the urge to appear weak by slumping against the nearest tree, Emily stood her ground, properly meeting the woman's eyes and introducing herself. "Hi, I'm Em. Mind if I share the bench?"

Glancing back at the little path from where she had come as if to make sure that it was still overgrown and semi-secluded from the busier sections of the park, she asked the woman, "How did you find this place, anyway? People don't usually give that tiny little path a second glance."

Emily recalled one time when she'd seen a few small children on a walk in the park with their mother - the only other time she remembered someone coming close to finding her secret clearing. They were Americans, judging by their accents, and their mother had seemed to be in a great hurry; perhaps they'd been only passing through on their way to go sightseeing. The mother was pushing an infant in a pram while the other two, both no more than seven years of age, walked alongside. The two children were skipping around, playing happily with sticks and plants that they found along the sidewalk, and they kept lagging behind their mother, distracted by other things - one of those things happened to be Emily's path. They hadn't the time to explore more than two metres in, however, because their mother kept calling to them in an irritated voice to "hurry up! Come on, guys, keep moving! God, if you would just keep up!"

[emilygracecarter-blog]

Not Alone || Emily and ?

The sun had barely peeked out over the hazy horizon, but Emily Carter was already up. The weather was beautiful that day. London wasn’t expecting an overly warm winter, but the temperatures were uncharacteristically high for November. Emily wasn’t complaining, though, as she headed to the park wearing nothing warmer than a light jacket. Autumn was her favourite season, and the longer it lasted the better. It must have rained the night before, because tiny droplets hanging from the bare trees were glistening in the morning sun. Emily stuck out an index finger to catch a few from the closest branches, watching them slide down and fall to the ground before she wiped her finger on the skirt of her dress. She was clutching two books close to her chest—one was the thick leather notebook she’d had since she was ten, the worn pages mostly filled with the short stories she’d once spent all of her time writing, and even some attempted drawings; the other was Pride and Prejudice, a book she’d “borrowed” from the little shop she worked at. Her manager never noticed if one book went missing, and the books only ever took her a couple days to finish anyways, so they were never gone for long… She let her imagination roam as her feet automatically followed the path she’d taken so many times. She was almost there; she had only to cross a bridge and walk the tiny abandoned path that she knew so well before she would reach it: a small clearing on a hill that overlooked much of the park. She could always be alone there, and she could be free to practice her acting, or sing as loud as she wanted without being overheard, or even simply sit and read or write. She didn’t have to pretend there. Didn’t have to put on a mask. She could be herself there—or, at least, the closest thing to herself that she knew how to be. It was a beautiful place, shaded in some areas and exposed to the sun in others, and it was surrounded by large trees that she had climbed a few times just for the fun of it. It had always held an air of mystery for Emily, who especially enjoyed the old wooden bench with countless names and words carved into it left there by unknown, faceless people she used to assign personalities and stories to. It was a place that may have once been popular but was now dominated by wild plants and trees, and even though she was a very different person from who she had been when she’d first discovered it, she was still falling more and more in love with it. Now on the tiny path, she picked a few flowers and played with the petals, picking them off one by one. A slight wind blew through the trees, sending the fresh smell of pine wafting into her nose and catching a few of the flower petals to carry them off somewhere far from there. Emily smiled, taking the last few steps into the clearing and breathing the smell of the familiar place deeply into her lungs. But something was different this time; something was off. She squinted her eyes a little bit in confusion. There was someone there, someone else sitting on the bench. Emily hid her books behind her back and cleared her throat, automatically switching on her more assertive personality.  “Um, excuse me. That’s my bench you’re sitting on.”

[nigel-marvalli]

A 3 year old ripped a copy of A Tale of Two Cities today.

[nigel-marvalli]

Right? At the moment mine is The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman. Kind of a kid’s story, but lovely nonetheless. I’m Calliope.

[emilygracecarter-blog]

Oh, nice! I haven't read it; what's it about? I think my favourite right now is probably Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. I just reread it for the first time in years and liked it even more than I did the first time around! Nice to meet you, Calliope! That is a brilliant name!

[nigel-marvalli]

A 3 year old ripped a copy of A Tale of Two Cities today.

My soul died a little.

[emilygracecarter-blog]

Oh no, really? That's awful! I hate when good books get ruined, especially when it's the important stuff like the pretty covers or the actual pages... What's your favourite book? I'm Em, by the way.

[karston-hale-blog]

Is it just me..

[karston-hale-blog]

… Okaythen. Thanks for tellin’ me, I suppose?

[emilygracecarter-blog]

Awh, you're no fun; you're supposed to tell me your name! But that's okay, I won't bug you about it. I am curious, though: you're obviously not into big gatherings of people, so what are you into?

[karston-hale-blog]

Is it just me..

or are there a lot more people lurking in London than usual at this time of night? That time of year again, or somethin’?

[emilygracecarter-blog]

I don't know, I think it's pretty normal! I haven't seen you around, though... I'm Emily.

[caroline--flynn]

I felt like such a tourist today

[caroline--flynn]

I have a natural Irish accent with a hint of French, so I guess I pulled it off. I’m Caroline.

[emilygracecarter-blog]

Hi, Caroline! I'm Emily, nice to meet you! I have this thing where I always ask people a really random question when I first meet them, so... What's the most dangerous thing you've ever done?

Where did you go sightseeing, by the way? I finally went went on the London Eye a few weeks ago. It was actually really awesome. I like seeing things from a completely different perspective, and 135 metres into the air is pretty different from the view on the ground!

[caroline--flynn]

I felt like such a tourist today

I went sightseeing and was entranced by the beauty of London.

[emilygracecarter-blog]

I love faking touristry! It's funny to see the looks people give you, especially if you speak in an American accent:

Yeah, can I order some french fries, a large hamburger, and a Coke? You don't sell those? Well, where's the nearest McDonalds, then?

[emilygracecarter-blog]

{Emily's Journal} Hindsight

Like, why in the world was everyone so worried about first kisses? Why did it even matter? And why did it matter so much that they would bully someone over it?

I mean, really. I didn't realize it then, because I was certain that I was the only kid on earth who hadn't been kissed, but now I know that that was ridiculous. I would be surprised if half those kids had ever been kissed. And that was exactly why they bullied me—when they were bullying me, the attention was off them, and no one would ever know that they themselves had virgin lips. By harassing me, they were protecting themselves. They could control the situation when I couldn't.

It's kind of ironic, really. I worked so hard every single day to keep the attention as far away from me as possible, and suddenly I was the most visible person in the school. It was terrifying to me. I guess that's what prompted me to get into acting; I thought that if I could learn to purposely call attention to myself, I would end up being more in the background after all. Through the lies, the masks, the exaggerations, I could control every situation. I would no longer be kicked around.

But now, looking back, I don't understand. Why did I do it? Why did I start telling all those lies? Did it really take attention off me? No, of course not. I became more visible than ever. And I earned a reputation, and I may have had friends that time around, but there were also people who hated me, and was it worth it? What I lost? Because the instant I left that school, what was left? I had no place to spend every day, no homework to fill my free time, no friends or boyfriends left to hang out with and to tell stories to. No plan for my life. No idea who I was.

The only thing I have left now is the books. Through them I can be so many people; I can read, and be a new character each time. I can act on stage and off, taking on a different character with each production. I can change personalities for each person I'm with. I'm so, so good at it.

I can be anyone; I can be everyone.

Except myself.