The Repository of Unwanted Characters. Where literature lives.

I’ve actually published over 200 articles on Medium now. The milestone crept up on me when I wasn’t paying attention.

A lot of them have been based on prompts that I’ve found in various publications. They have been either a word or a picture, designed to set an author’s imagination going.

As I’m a bit busy for the next couple of weeks, with little time to write new content, I thought I’d show you a couple of my favourites.

Here’s a prompt picture that appeared in a Medium publication called Lodedstar Gazette, back in January.

There was no limit placed on what you could write about, only that it shouldn’t be more than about 1000 words.

This is what my mind came up with.

I love a second-hand bookshop, the smell of old paper and the almost reverential atmosphere that exists in the best ones.

So, you can imagine my delight when running from a shower, I dodged down a lane and found the somewhat grandly named Repository of Unwanted Characters. Through the small windows, I could see that the interior was filled with books.

It looked interesting, I couldn’t resist, even if I hadn’t been soaked. The door squeaked as I pushed it open. It almost seemed as if it were talking to me, calling me or welcoming me inside. The books I could see through the windows were only the start.

There were shelves and stacks of books everywhere, with just the space for a couple of battered chairs and a low table. Predictably, this was piled with books, too.

The assistant, small, old and wizened, with glasses perched on his nose, smiled at me. “Come in and take a seat,” he said, “I’m John. Tell me, what’s your favourite type of story?”

“Pleased to meet you, John,” I said, “I never knew this shop was here. I love anything that has an original idea behind the story, not a formulaic rehash of last year’s big thing,” I said.

“Well you’ve come to the right place, try this.” He reached behind him, without looking and passed me a red volume. The cover was scuffed, and the title was longwinded. Adventures in Another Time and Place, a collection of short stories, by Jack Anders.

“Thank you,” I said. “I’ve never heard of Jack Anders, is this an old book?”

“Oh no,” he replied, “it’s quite recent, just not that popular; it’s only sold a few copies. Take a seat; can I offer you tea? No charge,” he hastily added. “It’s a horrible day and I’m having one.”

I thanked him and sat.

“Where did you get the idea for the shop’s name?” I asked as he set a cup of tea down in front of me.

“I always had a fascination for the books that weren’t popular,” he said, “I was never one for following trends. I’ve made it my life’s mission to read the books that nobody else does. I think the characters that unfashionable authors spent so much time creating will be lonely if they’re never read. They deserve to be heard. I give them a place, keep them alive.”

I knew exactly what he meant. In my own reading, I had discovered that there were so many hidden gems. All you needed to do was get away from what everyone else was enthusing about.

John retreated and left me to it.

As I sipped my tea and read the stories, I realised that this was one of the most gripping books I had ever read. All the stories were different, but in each one, the characters seemed to come alive and step from the pages. I could sense them all around me. I couldn’t tear my eyes from the book.

I was sure that I only had to look up and I’d see them all. Silvinna, the warrior princess, the Gangsters and the ill-fated Showgirl, Sir Edgar the Knight of the Crusades.

Whoever Jack Anders was, he had an incredible imagination. He deserved to be famous.

When the door opened, I didn’t look up. Then, I heard someone sit opposite me and glanced at them. He was a distinguished-looking gentleman, well-dressed, with a finely trimmed moustache and deep blue eyes. I saw that his clothes were dry; the rain must have stopped.

He smiled, “good afternoon,” he said. “I see someone new has found this wonderful place.”

I put the book down for a second, “I didn’t know it was here, but I love the atmosphere. And this book, I’ve never heard of it but it’s glorious.” He smiled again. Behind me, I heard a faint rustling noise, like a distant conversation. I suddenly felt some tension in the air.

The shop owner reappeared; he seemed surprised at the newcomer. “Hugo,” he said, his tone disapproving. “What are you doing here?”

“I felt the need, John,” said the man. “I feel alive today, for the first time in ages.”

“Hugo is a good friend of Jack Anders,” John said. “I’ll get some more tea.” He moved away, his muttering and shuffling feet joined the rustling I could still hear.

This was a fascinating coincidence, someone who knew the man who had written these wonderful stories.

I looked into his eyes, “how well do you know Jack Anders?” I asked.

“We’re really close friends,” he replied. “Jack Anders is a wonderful man. Do you know, he found me when I had nothing? He gave me a life and a purpose.”

I could hear louder noises now. I thought I heard someone say “No.” There was definitely someone close behind me. And I could sense their anger.

“I think I’ve said too much,” said Hugo.

Who was that behind me? I had to know.

“Excuse me,” I said to Hugo. I got up and went to see who it was. As I peered into the shadows between the groaning shelves, I heard the noises of people moving about; they were getting fainter and fainter until they finally disappeared. I heard the shop’s door open and close. I looked back at the seats; Hugo had gone.

The shop owner returned with two cups of tea. “Where did Hugo go?” I asked. “I heard a noise, in the shelves. I only looked around for a second and he was gone.”

“Hugo wasn’t supposed to be here,” he said. “It made the others angry. He had to leave.” He plonked one cup down and walked away with the other.

I didn’t really understand what he meant. Shaking my head, I picked the book up and turned to the next story.

The Tale of Hugo Du’phan.

I hope you enjoyed that. If you subscribe to Medium, you can find me, and the rest of my stories, here.

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