Jackson Lee-Phillips always made sure, every morning, to stop at every corner and look around him. He took a deep breath, gazed around at every building to see if there were any differences from the day before and then continued on to the next corner. Over the years walking to his office there’d been quite a few changes. The coffee shop on Bueno Boulevard had changed to a bar, then to a bookshop, then to a vape store and then back again to a coffee shop selling slightly more expensive and worse coffee than the original coffee shop that had been there before. Jackson could smell the bitter beans whenever he walked past, trying desperately to hold his breath and limit how much of the smell got through. He always failed.
On Casey Street’s corner a convenience store had changed ownership three times, each owner trying to add a bit of ‘themselves’ to the store front. There’d been large artful fruit displays, cardboard cutouts of a smiling cartoon bear, flags of however many different nations one of the owners had managed to get a flag for with a small budget. This morning, under the ownership of Mr Singh, the outside was decorated with fairy lights and a well-made floral display of daffodils, roses and poppies. By afternoon, Jackson thought, the flowers would be knocked down or destroyed by somebody walking past but tomorrow Mr Singh would still try something new, just like all the other owners had.
Jackson stopped longer in front of Mr Singh’s store to smell the flowers and get rid of the taste of the bitter beans from the coffee shop. He might as well enjoy them whilst he could.
Mr Singh saw him from inside and came outside, a flower in hand. “They’re nice, aren’t they?” he asked.
Jackson stopped sniffing and nodded, red-faced. “Y-Yes. They’re lovely.”
“Would you like one?” Mr Singh offered him the fresh daffodil in his hand. The bud wasn’t open. “You just put it in some water and it’ll bloom.”
“Oh no, it’s fine,” Jackson spluttered, still embarrassed.
“Please,” Mr Singh said, pushing the daffodil into Jackson’s open hand. “A bit of spring to lift our spirits, yes? They always make me feel good.”
“Er—Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”
“Don’t mention it. Have a good day.” Mr Singh waved and wandered back into his shop.
Jackson considered for a minute whether he should go inside and purchase something in thanks. He checked his watch. No, he didn’t have enough time. He still had two more corners to stop at. He had to stay on schedule. Tomorrow, he told himself, tomorrow I’ll set off earlier and come and buy something before work.
He set off again and finished his route, arriving at his work building at exactly 7:52. Three minutes later he was in his office, unpacking his briefcase. Perfectly on time, just as he liked it. He checked his desk over, making sure everything was in its proper place and then sat down, happily. The carpet in front of him, a deep, dark blue like the depth of the ocean had been hoovered perfectly so that he could see the stripes where the hoover had run over the floor, all orderly and straight going to the back wall. He always made sure to leave some money behind to thank the cleaner for being extra thoughtful about how they cleaned his room. He knew he was more pedantic than most.
He ran his eyes over the carpet, feeling satisfied with how it looked and then stopped at the middle of the floor. Something was sat there, ruining the perfect lines. He got up, grumbling and confused. The cleaner had always been so careful before. He didn’t understand why they would leave something so big lying in the middle of the floor they’d worked so hard on. He bent down to pick the item up. A book? Why was there a book just lying open in his office?
He turned the book over and looked at the hard front cover. “Edgar and Philly? Why is this…?”
There was a bright light and the book fell to the floor with a crash. Jackson was gone.
—————
Rachel was sat in her small office, staring round at the walls both intently and also distracted. She wanted to focus on her work, devote this time now to working on her next novel, but no matter how long she stared at the sticky-notes that were plastered all over the walls she couldn’t seem to figure out how to bring it all together and make it work. The characters, on the yellow sticky-notes, felt like caricatures. There was no depth to them. They just existed to drive the plot, written on blue sticky-notes, which was also played out and tired. She rubbed her temples, trying to force her eyes to focus. Surely it hadn’t always been this hard to write? Why, only a couple years ago, surely, she was a best-selling author? No, that was almost a decade ago now and although she’d written a lot of things since then, nothing had seemed to capture her early success.
“No, come on, Rachel,” she told herself. “You’re better than this. Think about when you started writing. Think about all the ideas you had.”
Yes, she thought. All the ideas I’d had. All the stories I’d written, turned down because it ‘didn’t quite fit’ or that I’d been made to re-write so it would ‘appeal to a greater audience’. She sighed, remembering when as a nineteen year old she’d made the promise to herself to always stay true to herself and be confident in what she wanted to write. She’d learned very quickly that to get anywhere in this industry you had to bend, at least slightly, to what other people said. Recently though it was like she was doing nothing except bending to what every other person wanted, or constantly considering what other people would think before she even had the opportunity to think of any story idea herself. There wasn’t an original idea left in her head, it seemed. Nineteen-year old her would be ashamed of what she’d become.
Maybe she should just write another Edgar and Philly after all. It already had an established formula, a fan-base still (maybe), and though it wouldn’t bring in much or be very fun for her to write, it would be easier to get out quickly… and maybe it would make everyone happy?
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Nobody will ever be happy with those stories. There’s always going to be something I do wrong.”
She looked over at the shelf closest to her where she kept all of her most important books and knickknacks. Edgar and Philly books, written by both her and a couple other authors, were sat piled high in a stack. There were a couple videos and DVD’s leaning against the stack of books from the many attempts to make a successful and long-running Edgar and Philly film or TV series. Although some of the films had done well, they’d never managed to make them last any longer than a couple films or one season of a show. Most actors just didn’t enjoy playing the characters or the judgement that came with it from the Book Series’ many fans. Rachel reached up and pulled a DVD off the shelf, causing the other DVD to fall over with a clatter.
She brushed the dust off the side with a gentle hand and coughed, breathing some of it in. ‘Edgar and Philly: Band of Brothers’ was the last film attempt before Rachel had taken over writing the books. The writer of the film, Ellen Bankroft, also wrote a couple of the books and had been one of Rachel’s heroes growing up. She had been so excited when, one day, she’d received a call from Ellen herself (and not just her agent) asking if she wanted to come to a special meeting and talk about a collaboration between the two writers.
Of course, younger Rachel, fresh off the success of two original novels she’d had published but still very much considering herself a beginner in the industry was ecstatic at the idea of spending time with one of her writing idols… let alone collaborating on anything. She’d shown up to the meeting at a coffee shop near her Agents office feeling like she was living in a dream and so excited to meet Ellen. She’d even brought some of her favourite Ellen Bankroft books in the hopes she could get her to sign some, though she wasn’t sure whether Ellen would actually agree to do it or if looked unprofessional for her to ask.
“Hello there, Rachel,” Ellen had called, from a table near the back of the almost empty coffee shop.
Rachel blushed bright red and wandered over, a nervous butterfly fluttering around her insides. “H-Hi. I mean, hello, Ms Bankroft.”
“Oh please, call me Ellen.” She’d nodded to the chair across the table from her and Rachel had sat down. The chair had been uncomfortably hard and Rachel had fought to stop herself from wriggling around on it or complaining about the pain in her legs and backside. Ellen wasn’t complaining, so neither would she.
“Do you want to get a coffee first or do you want to go straight to business?” Ellen had asked.
Rachel didn’t really drink much coffee so she shook her head, angry that she couldn’t seem to open her mouth to speak.
“So business it is then?” Ellen asked.
Rachel nodded and stuttered, “Y-yes, that’s okay.”
“Okay, so, actually I think I may have brought you here on somewhat false pretences. I don’t have any plans to collaborate with you…”
Rachel’s heart sank. Not collaborate? But that’s what she’d been asked here for, hadn’t she? She wanted to ask why but instead she said, “Oh, okay,” sadly.
“No, no, I don’t have any plans to collaborate with you… but I do have something to give you instead.” She pulled a book from out of her bag and passed it across the table to Rachel. It was the last Edgar and Philly book written by Ellen Bankroft. Rachel could recognize ‘Edgar and Philly in Demon’s Deep’ from a distance; it had such a unique and startlingly red front cover.
“Edgar and Philly?” Rachel had asked, confused.
“Yes,” Ellen said. “So you know them then? Good. Well, this is what I’d like to offer you, Rachel. How would you feel about taking on the series? I want you to continue writing Edgar and Philly- to be my successor, so to say.”
“What?” Rachel had been shocked but her heart had started to beat rapidly, excited at the idea. “Me? Write Edgar and Philly? But.. they’re yours.”
“And before me they were Martin Tarazi’s. And before him they were Richard Mycraft’s… and so on and so on. Edgar and Philly have been passed between writer to writer. It’s a lot of work looking after these fellas. Making sure to keep their story alive. Anyone who does it, you know, it’s their calling. Do you think writing’s your calling, Rachel?”
Rachel didn’t even have to consider it at the time. “Yes, of course.”
“Then you’re the perfect next writer for these special fellas. But, well, I know it’s odd but I have to hear you say it properly—hand on book, like you’re swearing to tell the truth—say, you, Rachel Cairns, promise to look after and continue the Edgar and Philly stories.”
“Really?” Rachel had asked.
“I know it seems silly, but I was made to do it. It’s tradition.”
Rachel had shrugged it off, not questioning it any further (though she should have done) and had done exactly as asked. With hand on book she’d said, “I, Rachel Cairns, promise to look after and continue the Edgar and Philly stories… and… and I promise I’ll do my best to make them great.”
A bright flash of light had come over the cover of the book and the next thing Rachel had known she’d awoken in a beaten up old boat, swaying around at sea near the rock called Demon’s Deep.
Two months she’d spent with Edgar and Philly on that boat, she remembered. Time seemed to just go on and on, and at the time (after the initial shock of it all) Rachel had enjoyed every minute of it. Sometimes she’d almost wished she’d just stayed there and not bothered to come back but, well, without a story to live out Edgar and Philly weren’t the best company to be with. They never moved their boat away from Demon’s Deep, they constantly argued with one another about money or personal space on the small rocking boat and they constantly asked Ellen questions about what they should be doing. However, living on that boat had been far more peaceful and relaxing, in hindsight, than all of the time she’d spent writing the books and all of the criticisms she’d received when they were published.
After that, it was all Edgar and Philly books for her. No more original ideas—just constant appeasing of an already existing fanbase and a silent majority who refused to say what they thought of any of her work. Writing everything to fit into Edgar and Philly’s story made it hard to do anything else. The last thing she wanted was to create another Pippin situation. Martin Tarazi had practically ruined his career with the invention of Philly’s nephew and had been almost forced to pass the stories on to his successor. Rachel couldn’t in good conscience pass Edgar and Philly on to another writer. It wasn’t fair to leave somebody else with the same mess that Ellen had passed on to her. As much as Edgar and Philly were a blessing to a writer, they were also a curse. They were full-time unappreciated work and they left you feeling… Well, they left you in the same situation Rachel was in now—staring at a room full of vague notes, unable to write anything you actually cared about or wanted to write.
The phone rang in the other room, loudly and Rachel stood up from her chair—almost thankful that she had an excuse to get out of her reverie. Well, at least she could have a break from feeling useless for a few minutes.
——————-
“What? Where am I?” Jackson flinched at every creak the boat made. He skittered around the deck, frantically.
Edgar and Philly watched him from the side closest to the dock, making sure the pale-faced man couldn’t escape that way. It wouldn’t do any of them much good if they lost sight of him in the world of the Edgar and Philly books.
Philly stepped forward and grabbed a hold of Jackson’s shoulders, locking the scared middle-aged man in place. “Alright then, there’s no need for that anymore. We just want to talk, that’s all.”
“What? Who are you?” Jackson shrieked, frozen on the spot. His breath was coming out fast and he kept whimpering, like a panicked puppy that’d been backed into a corner.
Edgar came forward and swung his arm, dramatically. “Come now, you must recognize the greatest adventurers there’s ever been. Why, it’s I, Edgar Brainbright—and my close friend, Philly.”
Philly rolled his eyes and grunted, angrily. The least he could do is say his last name too, if he was going to claim he was his ‘close friend’. “He don’t know anything about Book-World, Edgar. He probably just thinks you’re one of them fellas that dresses up like us.”
“Surely he can’t confuse my brilliant self for one of my lacklustre clones?” Edgar asked, striking a pose and holding an umbrella he’d picked up from the deck in the air like a sword.
“E-Edgar? Ph-Philly?” Jackson stuttered, through sharp breaths. “B-Book world?”
“The long and the short of it is, lad,” Philly said. “This here is what’s inside of those books of yours. All that writing you’ve read is what we’ve lived, thanks to all those writers over the years.” Philly slowly pushed Jackson over to a deckchair he’d placed against the closed door leading to the lower decks.
Jackson slowly sat down, his breathing getting calmer but his face staying pale. “B-Book world? But… no, books don’t exist. They’re just words.”
“Why, of course we exist,” Edgar yelled, striking yet another pose. “What a silly thing to say. All of our hordes of many fans know that we’re real, just as they are. We live in the heart of everybody who follows our daring tales.”
“Edgar, be quiet,” Philly said, gruffly, before kneeling down next to Jackson so he wasn’t towering over him. “Look, I know this is a lot to take in, but I just need to check, you are the Agent of Rachel Guild?”
Jackson nodded quickly, his head darting around and trying to take in his new unfamiliar surroundings.
“Good,” Philly said. “Then, we won’t hold you long. We just need you to promise that you’ll help Rachel earn a lot more money. Help her write and sell a new Edgar and Philly book and get paid. That’s the most important part, do you understand? She has to get paid.” Philly didn’t mean it to come off as threatening but Jackson squirmed in the deckchair, leaning away from the tall-even-when-bent-over man.
“I—I can’t.”
“Why ever not? It seems reasonable to me,” Edgar said, coming over to the other side of Jackson and choosing to stay towering above him. “She writes a new book, you make sure she’s paid well. Is that not your job?”
“Y-Yes, but there’s only so much I can do. B-B-Books only make so much. I cover m-many clients and only make enough to cover my living expenses.”
“Then how does anybody make more money in your blasted, confusing world?” Edgar asked, frustrated and swinging the umbrella around dangerously.
Jackson ducked when it came towards him and started shaking. “M-Most writers do better with money from rights. You k-know, they sell to TV or Film studios and the studios pay them for the rights…”
“You know this for sure?” Philly questioned. “This rights is the best way to get Rachel more money?”
“Y-Yes. I-I think, anyway. I-In my experience. I k-know, when I was an actor on E-Edgar and Ph-Philly: Searching for the Sorcerer… T—The Edgar and Ph-Philly writer got paid a lot for the rights then. They were a-always on set, b-bragging about it.”
“Ah, I thought you looked familiar,” Edgar said. “Yes, you’re the spitting image for that cheeky scamp Terror Tim. Strange, Ellen always said that they never got actors that looked like the characters she’d written.”
“I-I played Winston Leigh.”
“Ah, yes, you look nothing like young Winston.”
Philly patted Jackson’s arm. “Don’t worry, young Actor-Winston. We’ll make sure that you get to play him again.”
A flash of light came over Jackson as Philly clicked his remote, and very quickly the deckchair was empty.
Edgar crashed down onto the now vacated deckchair, his breath coming out in a huff. “Well, that was a waste of time. Fake-Winston was useless.”
“No, he wasn’t.” Philly stood up properly and walked towards the pile of old phone books he had in the corner of the deck. “Now, we find someone who can do exactly what Actor-Winston said. We’re going to get them to make another moving picture.”
“Great, more work,” Edgar complained, covering his eyes with a piece of fabric from his pocket and quickly falling asleep.
The Literary Onion 