For my senior Writing class we had to write a short story about anything we wanted; we could include any characters, real or fictional and I leapt out of my chair in excitement because that meant I could write a short story about my OCs. There's Oliver, my happy little man, Penelope the quirky and spontaneous female, and my Martin! whom I love the most. He's the angry bookshop owner that I would love to take home to Mommy, haha. Enjoy. These three are the loves of my life.

xx

“How much is this?”

Martin looks up from the book he had been reading, clear annoyance on his face. “How much does it bloody well look like?” He snaps and she stares at him.

“There’s no price tag.”

“Then it’s not for sale.” He looks back down at his book and she looks around in confusion.

“But this is a book shop.”

“Look,” He sets his book down and glares up at her through messy black bangs. Carefully he appraises her and snorts his disgust. She’s from Uptown, clearly; neatly ironed skirt, blouse and blazer. Her hair is pulled back in a tight bun and she’s wearing no makeup.

“It’s fifty pounds.”

“Fifty pounds?” She’s appalled, naturally. Most people are when they walk into Sharpe’s Used Bookstore, “It’s an old cook book.”

“Belonged to my grandmother. And her grandmother before that. And her grandmother before that. Worth more than fifty pounds that book. Gonna buy it or what?”

She flips through it and stares at him in disbelief, “It’s only fifty pages.”

“Yea, so what? It’s a pound a page.”

“Is that how it works in this shop? A pound every page?”

“Yea.” He stares at her like she’s stupid, “What’d you think?”

“And the books with more than a thousand pages? A pound every page for them, also?”

He doesn’t answer; simply stares and she grimaces. Not bothering to hide her discomfort with his dark gaze, she sets the book down and clutches her purse. Someone would think that she was about to get mugged, “Well. You’re a very interesting man. This is an interesting shop you have right here…” she says, edging towards the door.

Still no answer. His hands are folded under his chin; his fingers, long and tapered. She tries to smile at him and fails, the corners of her lips twitch awkwardly and she finds the door handle.

“Well, I’d best be going then. You have yourself a nice… um… goodbye.”

“Die.” He mutters, returning to his book, “Now… Mr. Copperfield, where was I?”

Ding.

Martin groans and buries his nose deeper into his book. “Why do people keep shopping here?” he groans.

“’Ello, Martin!”

Oliver Morgan. Town’s happy-go-lucky toe rag. Nothing can upset him. Nothing can wipe that stupid, broad grin off his face. Martin imagines Oliver dead; his body laying in a casket, hair nicely combed, wearing a suit, a broad fucking grin blazing on his face, creeping out every mourning person. The thought makes Martin smile.

“Havin’ a good day, there, Martin?” Oliver notices the grin and immediately Martin turns red and looks back at his book.

“You smart-ass bastard, what the hell are you doing here?”

“Here to buy books, mate!”

“Why would you come down here? You live Uptown with Little Miss Polished Finger Nails.”

“Who?” He’s still smiling and when Martin doesn’t respond, says, “Well your store is Annie’s favorite.”

“Still snogging that cow?” Martin pipes and Oliver chuckles.

“Listen to you—jaded a bit, eh, Martin? You need a T-shirt.” Oliver puckers his lips in thought, “Perhaps one that says ‘Love is Lame’. How about that, eh?”

“You time-wasting bastard, get the hell out of here.”

“Didn’t mean to upset you there, Martin.” Oliver throws his head back in laughter and Martin rolls his eyes. Pain in the ass, that Oliver Martin. Couldn’t take a hint.

I hate your daft girlfriend, Martin wants to say as Oliver tweaks his newsboy hat and walks over to a shelf of classics. He begins to leaf through a book and with one hand, and pulls his checkered sweater over his trousers with the other.

“Annie was begging me to come pick up some Charles Dickens for her. She’s been aching for a good read. Got any Dickens around?”

Martin looks down at his own trousers and back at Oliver. He’s smug as he answers; “Only one, but it’s not for sale.”

Oliver catches on quickly, for once, and throws his head back in laughter. Martin grimaces in annoyance. Such a stupid laugh. Har-har-har-har! That’s what it sounds like. Bloody awful.

“Oh you joker, Martin Sharpe.” He chuckles and sets the book down. Dust flies out and Oliver blinks.

“You ought to clean these shelves, mate.” He says and Martin watches him with glaring eyes.

“You ought to shut the hell up about my shop. Go across the street. I’m sure Penelope has something you could buy Annie. A nice sock, maybe. You could gag her with it.”

“Martin Sharpe, I don’t understand your contempt towards my girl,” Oliver chuckles and Martin stares at him, blushing. He’s suddenly thankful for his shaggy black hair. He shakes it so it falls over his face and tries to read his book through his greasy bangs.

At first glance, one would think that Martin Sharpe, thirty-five and jaded, hates Oliver Morgan, who is twenty-five, with a passion, but what one wouldn’t see at a first glance, is that Martin actually likes Oliver. He’s a friend; annoying as fuck sometimes, but a friend. Indispensable. Think of Oliver as an office-red shirt. You can’t afford to lose him.

Yes. Martin Sharpe is fond of Oliver Morgan.

Very fond of him…

But Annie Holdings can rot in hell, that stupid woman, with her stupid red curls and “Omigosh, Martin did you see that new show on the tele? My God it’s fascinating, isn’t it? Who knew that you had to pee on jellyfish stings to make it feel better! God I love the tele, don’t you, Martin?!”

Bloody idiot, Martin thinks and Oliver continues to search through some books.

“Seriously, mate, no Charles Dickens in here?”

“Over there.” Martin waves in an unhelpful manner towards a large shelf of books. Oliver grins that grin and walks over just as the tiny bell above the door dings again.

“Fuck.” Martin mutters when he hears the jingling of change and the click-click of a bottle cap.

“MARTIN!”

Penelope Lee. Martin dares to look up just as Penelope flings herself towards his desk. A pile of papers goes flying as she flails. They’re useless papers, really, but Martin decides to make a stink about it anyway.

“Penelope, you bloody wench, look what you did to my papers!”

“They couldn’t have been that important, eh, Martin?!” Penelope chirps, always the bubbly one, and sprawls out on Martin’s desk. Her legs are still hanging off the edge, but she clearly doesn’t care.

That doesn’t look very comfortable, Martin thinks and Oliver comes over.

“Hello, Penelope.” He says and holds out a hand. Penelope sticks on hand in the air, and grins.

“G’day, Oliver!” she sings, and he kisses her hand. She giggles and tilts her head to look at Martin.

“Oliver is so kind. Why can’t you be kind like him?”

“Cause I don’t like you.”

“Aw, well that’s not very nice, Martin Sharpe!” Penelope giggles, ruffling her long brown skirt. What a ridiculous outfit! Honestly, who would wear an orange sweater with a brown skirt, and bright pink slippers with purple stockings? Her hair is a mess, too. Bright orange and curly, sticking out twenty-eight meters above her head.

Dodos aren’t extinct, Martin thinks, they bloody well live in Penelope’s hair.

Her face is pale and freckled; painted with blue eye shadow. Her lips are a crackling citrus pink. It’s terrible to look at. She’s just a wild explosion of color.

“’Cause I love you!” she reaches up and grabs his face. He glares down at her and blushes heavily as Oliver chuckles. Penelope presses her palms against Martin’s cheeks so his lips squish out like a fish.

“Wanna kiss me, Martin?” Penelope asks and Martin pulls out of her grip.

“Why aren’t you at your shop?” he glances across the street at her used antique and thing-a-ma-bob store.

“It’s sooooo dull in there,” Penelope fans herself with a hand, “And hot. Terribly hot. It’s nice and cool in here.”

Martin stares at her, wondering how much of a fight she would put up if he were to scoop her up and toss her into the dumpster behind the shop.

Penelope Lee was dropped on her head as a baby. At least, that’s what Martin tells everybody.

“Yea, and then her mother put her in a tub of ice to numb the pain, see, but that only froze her brain, and hindered her ability to learn!” he would tell anyone who would listen. Now, not everyone hated Penelope Lee the way Martin did. Most people actually really liked her. She was fun, cute, spontaneous, a far cry from the angry and jaded Martin Sharpe. She kept people in light spirits; loved to talk.

She could talk, talk, talk, and talk her life away. She often talked the nights away. She would wander the streets, cooing to pigeons, snickering to rats, and sometimes, if she was in the right place, she would strike up interesting conversations with lovely prostitutes; usually about lipstick shades. Once, a man, thinking she was in the ‘service industry’ drove up to her and asked her how much she wanted. She chatted him up for about an hour about how lovely marriage life must be, unintentionally made him feel guilty, and got out of the car without a penny, and with a broad, unknowing smile on her face. True, Penelope Lee isn’t very intelligent, but she’s nice. And to most people, that is far better than knowing what the square root of ex is.

Now, yes, Penelope Lee is a free-spirited bird, and things that she does surprises everyone, but it was a shock when people found out that she visited Martin Sharpe at his shop! At first, most people said, “Oh the poor child must be so alone without a family; she must just go across the street to Martin’s for a chat, eh? He’s the closest person to her.”

But, no. Penelope didn’t go just to have some company. She genuinely liked Martin Sharpe. His anger and utter hate towards life fascinated her.

“How can anyone hate butterflies?!” she would chirp to him in her high soprano voice.

“They’re despicable things. Have you seen what a butterfly looks like before it actually becomes a butterfly? God it’s bloody disgusting!”

“Oh but the transformation is just lovely, isn’t it Martin?”

“Get out of my shop. I hate you, Penelope.”

“I love you, Martin.”

And it’s true. Penelope Lee loves Martin. Penelope isn’t afraid to say what she’s thinking, and she often tells Martin when he’s being an ass, but nevertheless, she adores him and his cramped, messy and dusty bookshop.

Hahaha, oh Martin! :D How I love him so. I hope you liked it. Review?