Archive of Our Own ^beta

Dewy’s been working there for five years before he asks her what she does when she’s not working. He tells her he’s been building a forty-foot replica of the Shire in his basement. Says something about how hard it is to get a Hobbit hole to look realistic without round blocks. She’s read the book once or twice and says she can only imagine before explaining. “I’m an author.”

“Where can I read your stuff?”

She shrugs, smiles a bland smile. “Well…I haven’t published yet, but I will soon. Until then, I work here afternoons and play violin in a folk band.” Imani’s smart, knows that that band’s not going to go anywhere; she’ll have fun with it while she can.

“Cool,” he says awkwardly, shoving his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and smiling back.

“Imani! Dwey!” Laverne’s crown of red hair peeps around the door to the kitchen. “Get your butts in gear! Table six needs their hot dogs now!”

There are apologetic, mumbled smiles as they turn back toward their tasks. She’ll fantasize about what could be later, when she has more breathing room.

***

The writer’s circle is forty miles away, but every week she makes it with an hour to spare on her moped, her latest draft tucked into the sidebag and a thermos of coffee hooked to the handlebar.

The bookstore is smothered in flowery smells, and underneath those of aging paper. The circle surrounds a wooden table, their drafts and their coffee making an Arthurian circle ringing the center of the table. Imani smiles cordially, receives a series of polite smiles back, and listens intently as the meeting begins.

She waits her turn for a reading, listening to the rest of the group read their own words aloud for critique. Two of the women are working on thinly-veiled memoirs about their college experiences; someone else is writing a romance novel set in Cold War Russia. Another is writing a murder mystery set in the world of child beauty pageants.

And Imani, as always, is working on her Queen Galaxia stories.

The character’s been with her since she was ten years old; she’s lived as a doodle stained onto her desk, as a song she hums between classes and tables, as a novel that’s infested her laptop like a virus. The latest chapter takes her twenty minutes to read aloud to the group, it’s so long.

Queen Galaxia scoffed at the prisoner’s defiance. “Do you know who I am? I’ve existed since this nebula was birthed! I am the center of the world!!” She pointed a red nail at John Quick, contempt in her voice. “I challenge you to The Ultimo! We will battle on the Field of honor in the morning!” John hung his head, knowing that he would have to work doubly hard to convince the Queen to spare his life.

Imani looks up from the paper, feeling hot excitement from the recital still rushing through her veins. In the silence that followed she took a drink of coffee.
But then the group leader speaks up. “Well,” said the group leader. “Your prose is getting better. But it’s a little….mary sue.”

Imani chokes on her drink. “Mary sue? Do you really think it is?” She turns the paper about in her hand, trying to study it from the invisible angle that revealed some new secret quirk.

“My dear, I know you’re very proud of Queen Galaxia. She’s just a bit…much…and I’m afraid she isn’t a very fresh idea,” she says. “Now when you have something more original to show to the class, maybe you can…”

“…Leave the group,” says Imani. She instantly starts making plans to do that – after she snags some madeline’s from the refreshment table.

She’s already writing the next chapter for her next adventure.

Queen Galaxia trained her eyes on the witches, her eyes red-bright and ready to roast them were they stood…

***

There are ten people in the audience when she mounts the stage. It’s typical – they never have drawn anything close to capacity to one of their shows, yet they kept on trying to break in, to make it on their own terms.

Imani rosins up her bow, monitoring the rest of the band, waiting to see what sort of hiccups might present themselves. The drummer is already half into the bag, and their guitarist was pissed off that somebody had left a beer on his amp. The lead singer is ‘checking his visuals’ in a hand mirror and lacquering his hair with another layer of hairspray. He has a dulcimer tucked up against his knee.

As always, she has to lag behind while he introduces them – The Queen’s Kitchen, a Folk-Metal tribute to Pink Floyd. But once the music begins, she is transported beyond the four walls of the tiny dive bar, to some world far away from the drudgery consuming her life.

Lady Midnight stood on the stage, a microphone in her right hand, a beautiful gown draped along the lines of her long-limbed body. Her every gesture suggested a simmering sensuality as she stepped up to the mic, igniting the audience’s interest with just a wave of her hand…

“Pst!”

She opens her eyes. The barroom is busy, not a single eye’s upon her playing body – except for those of their lead singer, who tries to capture her attention. She can’t hear what he’s saying but she can read lips. She wishes she couldn’t, but she can read lips.

“Dude, whatt’re you doing? That’s the chorus for Freebird.”

****

If she has to work closing, she’ll bring her violin. She plays for her own health, for her own entertainment, and for as long as nobody complains.

At least one other person seems to like it. At least she’s not alone. “Do you know any Kings of Leon?” Dewy asks, coming round the counter, sitting down on a stool beside her.

Imani gives him a confident smile. “I think so.”

She rests her chin against the pitch and her fingers dance over the strings, and suddenly she’s a star. She’s an angel. She’s a thousand miles away from this café, heading southbound on a desert highway.