Submitted to Vocal Media, circa 2021
Every sidewalk hawker selling watches, records, flowers, and paintings of the city skyline were criminals according to the boy’s mother.
“They’re all bootleggers and thieves,” she would say, pulling the boy’s hand down the crowded sidewalk past the row of vendors. To the boy, however, these titles rang with wonder. Who were these people? How did they get all that stuff there? Was it really just a market for thieves and cons? Unanswered questions bounced around inside his imagination, inspiring creations of background stories for each merchant. That guy is the world’s best pickpocket and all of the watches he’s selling are from the wrists of people currently walking by. That woman sells flowers grown exclusively in a secret garden impossibly hidden in the city. That guy is actually a record label executive in disguise, selling albums on the street to research his target audiences. Any time the boy and his mother walked by, he added more to the stories, challenging himself to remember all their past details. Though after years of being pulled down the sidewalk, the boy eventually grew tired of adding to his stories. He learned to become a dutiful son, never causing his mother any stress or delay. Not long after that, he stopped noticing the sidewalk hawkers much at all. The sights and sounds of the city had blended into a noisy background mush, their walk a bland routine. And then one day, something interesting happened. The boy’s mother told him he was now old enough to walk on his own.
“You’re old enough to walk on your own now,” she said. “Don’t dawdle. Just check my numbers and come straight home. Be a good boy.” And she shushed him out the door.
With that, parts of the city that had previously fallen out of focus now rushed brilliantly into the foreground. The sun was out, reflected in puddles on the street, and the pigeons were swooping. A woman in an upstairs window sang high over her radio. Roast meats in the butcher’s window absolutely sizzled and beckoned the boy over for a closer inspection. The boy let himself be carried away with the current of pedestrians. His mother’s hand no longer there to guide him, it felt like the crowd picked him up and was ushering him to a destination unknown. When his feet finally touched back down, he found himself standing directly in front of the familiar line of sidewalk hawkers.
“Hey, you need a new watch? It’s time to replace that old thing. I got just the one. Come look. Brand new. Try it on!”
“How about some flowers for your mother, young man? Or maybe your girlfriend! What- no girlfriend? Give a lady some flowers and she’ll swoon! $6 for a half-dozen, $10 for a dozen.”
“All of the hits, right here. You like Billy Bo Washington? Of course you do. This one isn’t even out yet- can’t buy it in stores! Impress your friends!”
Their fast-talk buzzed. Old creations of fictitious backgrounds returned and mixed with current reality, causing the boy to feel like his head was spinning. Rows of watches shined in his eyes, dozens of fresh flowers intoxicated his nose, jazz music disrupted thoughts between his ears. The boy stumbled across someone’s foot. He reached out but found nothing to grab, and crashed onto a soft lump on the ground.
“Oof!” a voice cried from underneath. He jumped up and readied himself to apologize. But... The light had changed somehow. And there weren’t people rushing by. And the sounds of the city had faded into a low hum.
“I must have fallen around a corner and into an alley,” the boy thought. A woman sat on the ground, rearranging her display after the boy had knocked her items out of place. A shawl hung low over her face, and the boy wondered how he had never noticed her before.
“Lucky for me, you’re just a little mouse,” she offered. “I barely noticed when you bounced off my back.”
“I-I’m sorry,” the boy stammered. Glancing at the items in front of the woman, he noticed that this was the most unusual display. While every other hawker seemed to specialize in one type of item, the woman’s display was an odd assortment with no apparent correlation between the items; two porcelain tea cups, a miniature brass telescope, a notebook, a pile of polished rocks, a wooden statue.
A bell of danger knolled from inside the boy, but as he turned to leave, the woman’s hand shot out and neatly caught him at the wrist.
“For you, the Stones of Octavius,” she cooed, gesturing to the pile of rocks. The air around the pile vibrated like a drum beat from within it. “Anyone who throws one of these Stones will understand the depths to which it drops.” The woman then directed the boy’s attention to the thin telescope, loosening her grip on his wrist. “Or maybe… this telegon. Telegons are like windows into the lives of fairies. Ever wonder what goes on inside a treehouse of elves? These were conceived so that people could watch and learn where sprites hid their treasures. This may be the last one in existence.” Overcome with wonder, a force drew the boy’s gaze to the rest of the display. The notebook. It was different than the other items somehow. It looked ordinary enough, but the boy could feel an energy emanating from it that shot to the back of his head. The woman sensed it immediately.
“Ah yes, how did I not see it at first? You’re a dreamer, boy. Here.” She pushed the small book into the boy’s hands. “You’re right to be curious. This is The Book of Endless Design. Inside this book all of your dreams will come to life.” As she spoke, the woman lifted her face for the first time. Hidden underneath scores of wrinkles on top of mountainous cheek bones, her tiny eyes were endless galaxies; yellow stars and blue planets, moons orbiting and comets shooting across retinas, and swallowing black holes for pupils.
“But be forewarned,” she chanted. “To keep, in essence, this singularity, light-footed must the shepherd be.” The boy was locked in her gaze, hearing her words like echoes through a canyon. And just as he started to drift off into the void, a taxi cab blast its horn behind him. The boy spun around. A group of pedestrians rushed across the street and hailed the #47 bus. A pigeon flew down to peck at food scraps in the street, and for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, the boy inhaled a lungful of the loud, city air. He turned back to the woman but found nothing except a blanket and a small pile of rubble where she had just been. The notebook, however, was still resting in his hands.
“Hey kid, nice diary. Where’d ya get it?” growled one of the hawkers in the row. He had tattoos on his forearms, a devious smirk on his face, and sat next to a display of resurrected electronics.
Keep, in essence, this singularity.
“I- I found it. I mean, it was a gift, I mean,” the boy managed to respond.
“Hmm, it sounds like you stole it. Give it here.”
“I didn’t steal it!” Scared, the boy turned to run. The sidewalk was full of people and it seemed that everyone was walking in the opposite direction.
“Whoa there, son,” said a police officer, catching the boy’s shoulder. The officer walked backwards through the crowd, blindly dodging pedestrians with a confident smirk. “Do you know what you have there? I can assure you it isn’t your typical ledger. I’ll keep it safe for you, and I’m even willing to pay for the privilege.” The man opened a leather bag just enough for the boy to see inside. “There’s twenty thousand dollars. It’s more than you and your mother will ever see in your lifetime.”
The boy looked down at the bag of money.
All of your dreams will come to life.
And he laughed.
“I don’t believe you- that’s not even real money!” the boy cawed. The officer’s face dropped.
“Son, you stand to be in a lot of trouble-“
The boy didn’t let the officer finish and darted around a hot dog stand. He ducked behind a row of parked cars, and circled back at the beginning of the block, losing the officer in the crowd.
A large woman floated in the crowd ahead, creating an eddy that shielded the boy from the current of pedestrians. She smelled sweet, but looked at the boy with a familiar, and unwelcome, smirk.
“It’s ok, baby, don’t panic. It’s just rush hour so everyone’s in a big hurry. Isn’t that a lovely notebook you have there? My niece is looking for one just like it, how about that! Here’s a picture of her. Isn’t she pretty? If you were willing to give it to me, I’m sure she would love to meet you, such a generous and handsome boy.” The woman loomed over the boy, threatening to suffocate him with her potent perfume.
Light-footed must the shepherd be.
“She is very pretty, but I’m sorry- I’m late!”
The boy pushed back into the river of pedestrians, and hurried away from the woman.
Passing the park, a dog got away from its owner and tried to bite the notebook from the boy’s hands.
“It might be best to just give it to him,” the owner said. “Looks like a piece of junk anyway.”
Passing the restaurants, a man in an apron beckoned to the boy with a tray of hot food.
“Hey, you look hungry! ‘Chef Special’, on the house! Just let me take a look at what you have there.”
Passing the big business skyscrapers, a woman in a suit tried to distract the boy with a clipboard of charts and graphs while her free hand fished for the notebook.
“Kid, look at the numbers. It’s a sure thing, and I’ll let you in on it, but you gotta give me something in return. How about a peek at that book, huh? It’s the deal of a lifetime.”
“It’s mine! I didn’t steal it! It was a gift! It’s not for sale!” the boy yelled as he ran past each set of smirks and snatching hands.
Clutching the notebook, the boy ran and ran until he finally saw his front door. He nearly kicked it open, but quickly paused to hide the book under his shirt. His mother heard the door from the back room.
“Well, that was quick,” she called. “Did you run the entire way? And my numbers?”
Completely out of breath, the boy managed but a jumble of wordsounds in response. He waited to see if it had been sufficient.
“Go clean yourself up before dinner!”
The boy skirted into his room and closed the door, pulling the notebook from his shirt.
Inside this book, all of your dreams will come to life.
He imagined talking frogs, heroic conquests, and flying over fields of technicolored trees. For a moment, he even recalled his nightmares of falling from rooftops. The corners of the book protruded against his fingers, requesting to be opened.
They’re all bootleggers and thieves.
He winced as his mother’s voice invaded his thoughts, and shook his head to clear his mind.
This is The Book of Endless Design.
He pulled on a corner and immediately a small pen rolled into his hand. It was warm and alive between his fingers. But to his surprise, the pages were blank.
“Where are all my dreams?” the boy wondered. And then, a single word at the top of the page. Had it been there the whole time? The letters shined like the ink had just been written…
Begin
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