A quick post today sharing the first chapter of one of the new books in progress. The Jarless Genie is written first person between Anna Cause - the sister of Sandra Claus... of South Pole Santa fame - and Crispin, a genie on the loose in New York City. It's all still a rough draft but coming along. (I hope you like Troubadour. I've been having so much fun with him!) Oh, and I welcome your feedback and suggestions. Some of my favorite things about the South Pole Santa books came from great ideas from creative readers.
Chapter 1
Anna
While I came from a magic-filled background and lived in a magic-filled city — aka New York City — I was weirdly only really talented at fairly routine human activities. I couldn’t disappear or fly or make it thunder on a sunny day, though I knew some who could, or the endless number of other talents magical beings usually had. I could, however, paint, any medium, though I preferred oils. I could play drums and was part of an alternative magic band called Better with Booze. If you heard us you’d know the name was appropriate. We were actually maybe decent but mostly we were just loud. I bake a decadent cake that my work friends say I could make some major dollars on if I ever wanted to start a side gig. There’s some other stuff I’m good at — like picking up languages quickly — but the one I like the most is that I’m one of the best potters in all of NYC, for my age, or so people tell me. I’m 21 by the way. Well, kind of. Maybe. Sort of. It depends on who you ask and how you wanted to calculate it but that is a story for a later time. Let's just leave it out of this: I can’t tell you exactly for sure because misused magic messed me up. But you know what? I like being 21 — it comes with lots of freedom — and I love being 21 in NYC.
Making the break from my way-too-protective family wasn’t easy. For me or for them. My parents are like mega-amazing and my sister, well, she’s the very best. But she’s also very famous and very busy and she worried way too much about me. They all live on this gorgeous island in the Caribbean but I still don’t really think of it as home. When I realized that, I decided I needed to find somewhere to call my home and I set to checking out three cities I had heard were filled with magic: NYC; London and Dublin.
I loved them all! I was suited to them all. They’re all old and fresh at the same time. Filled with light and dark. One of the things I didn’t tell you about me yet is that I lean towards the dark. That was part of why I needed space from my family. They’re all so light and bright and fun and kind and, well, perfect. Even St. Annalise where they live most the time is like that. But me? I’m just different. I’m all for kind acts and know the world needs everyone to shine their light but my light is a little dimmer. I tend to shine my brightest when its dark. My paintings are dark; our band is hard rock; I dress in dark clothes; even my specialty cake is dark chocolate.
Anyways, to get back to where I live. Have you been to London or Dublin? They’re old cities where the magic is almost tangible to even the most practical human. My skin tingles thinking about them. But NYC has Central Park and me and the park? We are meant to be. So that’s how I ended up here in the biggest apple in the world.
“Are you done telling your story yet? It’s like a sauna in this shell today.”
“Troubadour, you are such a complainer! It’s a perfect weather day and you know I have to get this backstory just right if I have any shot at all at the internship with Professor Luma. I’m reading it out loud because I need your input.”
“At least set me under this bench for a little shade.”
“Technically, while you are a turtle and a most stubborn turtle at that, you are nonetheless my familiar and therefore, as we both know, a true bother at times. But, more importantly, you are perfectly able to poof yourself safely under this bench.”
All of that was true, but I kindly moved him anyways. Troubadour — sometimes just Troub but Dour suited his personality better all too often — was the one absolute, no-bargaining, concession my mother had locked on in order to support me moving. My mother is a powerful magic maker and she insisted I have a familiar. (I know, I know. I’m 21 and don’t need my mother’s approval. But things in my world are a little bit complicated and I actually welcomed having a companion.) Are you familiar with familiars? They’re sort of like a magical pet (though never let Troub hear me say that. “Pet!” he would shout. “I am no pet! I am your magical superior!”) Since I am limited in my magical abilities, mom wanted me to have a guardian. I watch him and he watches me. She let me decide on what animal to bond with and, thinking back, I probably should have gone with a cat. They’re the most common familiar and surely easier, and more pleasant, than what I selected. That is saying a lot since cats have a reputation of being independent to the extreme — especially in their roles as familiars. But a cat seemed too cliché. My sister recommended a bird since she has this macaw she calls Squawk. He’s pretty spectacular and also pretty annoying and, because he can fly, he’s always around, so a bird was out for me. I mean we all want some personal time. Strangely, rats, too, are popular familiars, but, really? Ugh, just ugh. After a lot of thought, a turtle seemed like the right familiar for me. Different, can’t fly, and not a rodent. Check, check and check. Plus, the bonus was I figured it would be easy to leave him behind for adventures in the city on my own. Thus, mom would get her way, giving me a magical guardian, and I would get my way knowing I didn’t really need one and could leave him behind. Ha! The only one that got their way, on pretty much absolutely everything, is Troubadour. For a turtle, he is fast, magically fast. He goes just about everywhere with me. Either tucked into my backpack or he just blinks his way to wherever I am. He also can talk. To me, way too much and to others if he pleases. Which he never pleases. Thank the twinkling stars for that, since I don’t really have any magical friends other than my co-workers. They’re pretty much the only ones who wouldn’t be shocked by a talking turtle. Though, very stubborn turtle that he is, he has never said a word in front of any of them. They just think it's cute that I bring my pet to work. Whatever.
Troub was new at being a familiar and I was new to having one so we are still stumbling through our bonding together, though it’s only been 16 months and we’re already pretty tight. That doesn’t mean we don’t irritate each other on the regular. For instance, Troubadour insisted on living up to his name by all-too-often bursting into reciting loud poetry or colorfully announcing me when I would get home from a long day: “Now arriving, her Royal Fairyness the Honorable, Ageless, Most- Annoying-because-she-didn’t-bring-home-any-fresh-fruit, Anna Cause of Brooklyn.” Okay, I kind of liked the announcements since he changed them up every time but the sing-songy prose when I was studying or, worse, sleeping, was just plain annoying. And, often, not very good.
“I’m still hot.”
“Well poof yourself home then.”
“I’d like nothing better but then who would watch over you? I think instead, I’ll just start singing. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll start singing and everyone nearby can gather round to hear and see the amazing singing turtle and then you can explain it.”
“Fine, you swampy, bossy, termite-eating, reptile, I have to get to work anyway,” I stuff my laptop into my backpack and tuck Troub on top.
“I’m not bossy, I’m boxy,” Troub huffs. Technically he’s a box turtle but that doesn’t mean he’s not a bossy box turtle. “And don’t call me a reptile.” The last part I barely hear because I’ve zipped up my backpack and his voice is muffled. I’ve heard it plenty though. He thinks reptiles have a bad reputation so he prefers to just be referred to as a turtle. Or Mr. Turtle or Worlds Greatest Familiar or the Marvelous Troubadour — he has lots of titles he prefers.
Besides Central Park, one of the reasons I chose NYC as my new home is because it has some of the best art schools anywhere. The negative is, despite me having some talent, I haven’t got into any of them and I’ve applied to them all. Even the fashion colleges. Why not, I figure. I could learn to love textile art. Unfortunately, I have far from a standard education background, so, for now, I’m putting my attention to classes at the community college level and hoping to transfer as soon as I’m done. It wasn’t what I envisioned but I’m doing pretty well, its close by, I can balance classes with work and I’m meeting new people. A win in the end.
Right now, though, what I am, is nearly late for work, so, like the true New Yorker I am learning to be, I ignore the don’t walk sign and dart across the road with a handful of others. You can always tell the locals from the tourists at any crosswalk.
I weave in and out of the crowds of people going every which way, avoiding the sidewalk scaffolding from construction projects; the lines for the food vendors and the tourists who abruptly stop to take photos. My part-time job is right in Manhattan but if you don’t know where the shop is you won’t find the shop. It's part of the hustle and away from the bustle as Cinnamon, the owner, likes to say. (And yes, that’s her real name. She goes by Sin but I like her full name better. Its spicier.)
I smile at and step around a dog walker wrestling to wrangle five large dogs and push open the door to Rare Wares. “Anna!” comes the shout as a greeting from two of my artist co-workers and I can’t help but smile. It may not be the grandiose announcement Troubadour provides but it feels good to be welcomed and have a place you fit in.
“Hey Ry, hey Lexie,” I give a shout out in return while moving to the back to put my backpack in my locker and grab my apron. I check on Troubadour but he’s tucked in his shell and snoring away so I let him sleep.
I’m a potter. Well I want to be. Pretty much everyone that works at Rare Wares is but they all have their specialties. Besides Cinnamon, the owner, there’s four of us. I’m the intern still learning, but producing work. Ry and Quill do custom pieces only that people commission. Their work is spectacular. Lexie focuses on more ordinary pieces like cups and saucers and the like, for general sale, and my specialty that I like best, is containers. Some are custom, some are for general sale. All of them are designed and made with magical needs in mind. I make lots of very small trinket like boxes to hold magic dusts, magic spells and the like. Those are the most popular and the easiest to turn out. No matter the size, the containers are very sturdy and extra thick for spells that shouldn’t escape and precious ingredients that need to be locked.
My favorite thing to be assigned, though, are the fancy, custom containers. I love making jars with lids, lamp bases, teapots, vases — all the sorts of variety that the New York tiny beings, like fairies and pixies, seem to covet. So, between witches, some warlocks, an occasional genie and a flow of fairies, I’ve come to have a recognized name in the magical society of New York that I’ve established all on my own regardless of who my family might be. Even just working two days a week. Thinking about it should make me happy but it sort of just makes me nervous. Magic workers and beings are finicky and fickle. I could be completely passe by next week. Worse, I could be a fruit fly by next week. Many magical beings are not really known for their kind, patient sides. That thought gives me the shivers and I hustle to check my work in the dryer from last week.
Oh Oh Oh! - Jingle