This is a Work In Progress and I am sharing it solely to receive feedback.

NO PEDDLERS, PLEASE!

What works? What doesn't? Where do you see it leading? Where would you like to see it leading? Does it hook you and make you want to read more? If not, what killed it for you? These are all questions for you to consider answering, or tell me whatever else is on your mind in regards. Please, let me know in the Comments below.

The writing will also be evolving, as the story and characters are being developed as I go, so certain parts may change after they have been read by you as I consider the feedback I receive. Your input does matter to me.

A young lady barely still in her early twenties, with basic glasses, freckles, and curled ginger hair the shade of clover honey farmed by ten thousand bees, sits at a table in the rear of her favorite local coffee shop in Westport, Ireland with her back to the world. Dressed in a cozy, fawn brown, knit turtleneck sweater and light turquoise jeans with black, lug sole combat boots, she is doodling and busily jotting notes into a paper notebook with pink bunnies printed around the page's edges; that is despite her computer tablet being open in front of her, though nudged a skosh to the left. A gentle waft of steam still rises from the wonderous lavender blackberry latte she has perched perilously close to the table's edge.

Not long before, she was typing up a presentation for a new product line which she will be introducing to her team at work tomorrow morning, 9 a.m. sharp, but she has been distracted of late by what some have said with an air of mockery are "less important matters." To her, they are precious; reminders of both the best days and the tough times she has urged herself through with great effort and determination.

While browsing through some old sketchbooks a few days back to foster ideas for a new children's toy, the assignment given to her development team, she had happened upon some old drawings from when she was engulfed in the world she had created earlier in the year. That is to say, she had created the world years ago, but was really into it for a time earlier this year, the first time she had been in a while. Seeing the drawings again sparked a nostalgia to pick back up where she had left off on her creativity streak. The ideas right now are not exactly flowing like water, but she has been keeping at it and carrying the notebook with her wherever she goes for those fleeting moments of inspiration.

Light shining upon the table begins to dim as a shadow materializes across it, so she scoots her notebook to the right to get better coverage from the coffee shop's overhead lights, assuming that a cloud has moved across the sun through nearest window. An errant bump of her knuckles against the poorly placed latte spurs a familiar realization of its consequence and rouses such a panic within her that life seems to slow its motion for the next few seconds as adrenaline now kicks her into overdrive. As foreseen, the cup of frothy wonderland begin to tip, and she fires forth both hands to snatch up the coffee vessel before it can spill, returning time to normal speed once she has succeeded in the clutching of it within her grip of stability.

As she breathes a sigh of relief, she thinks, Grip of Stability? That would be a good name for a band. She also likes to narrate her own life in her head as it occurs, like she's doing right now. I'm so weird!

My -- Her notebook, having been whisked over the edge by her arm during the catch, does tumble to the floor with an ungraceful flutter and soft crunch of pages against the less-than-heartily swept, woodgrain linoleum. But, having accepted that she could save only one, she thinks to herself, Yes, it is yet another victim to my clumsiness, but it was the most likely to survive. Thank goodness I kept the lid on the cup this time. Only a few errant drops sloshed out of the sipping hole and splattered upon my pages this time. But the joy-bringing alertness fuel has been saved, hallelujah,... this time.

Consoling herself on having made the wisest decision, she then sets the cup of latte down on the table at a safe distance before leaning over to reach the notebook, -ow!- only to be met by a wicked pain to her head as it strikes against something hard.

"Ouch! What the heck!," says an arrogant-sounding female voice. "I'm trying to do you a favor here."

The girl rubs the newly formed area of stinging discomfort as she looks up and sees its source: one of her teammates, Monique, only about three years her senior, who works in the advertising department clique four cubicles down and one vertical from her. Yes, arrogant is a fitting word to describe Monique. Despite not having been acquainted for long, she has always treated the girl as being beneath her twisted standards. She is wearing a black cashmere cardigan sweater, brown leather midi skirt, black leather trench coat, and black chelsea boots; no doubt the latest fashion trend verbatim.

The girl does not subscribe to following trends. She is not a sheep following the rest of the flock. Well, perhaps she stays apprised of them just to not appear too socially awkward in what she wears on occasion.

Monique lifts the notebook from the floor by an open end, glancing at the exposed pages as she does and letting the drops of coffee slide downwards across them, then hands it back with a bit of a scowl, though somewhat amused look upon her face. "I thought you were working on enrichment ideas for the tots, not new clothing lines for animals," Monique jabs, while caressing the point of their impact beneath her own shocks of shockingly orange-red dyed hair, a far cry from the girl's natural pigmentation.

Pshh! Wannabe. Not one for conversation in uncomfortable circumstances, the girl stammers, "I, well, yes. Um, I mean, it's not that. They're my... It just... helps my thought process to draw sometimes."

"I recognize them," Monique tells her, crossing her arms as she does. "It's not like you don't have various drawings of them pinned up at your desk. They're for a story you're working on, did you say? Oh, sorry if you thought I was trying to give you a hard time about it. You can draw whatever you want as long as I'm getting what I need from you in enough time to meet my deadlines."

"Oh, I... Yeah, that's going well. I-I should be finished in time for the meeting."

Monique pulls over one of the wooden chairs from another table with a rough, rubbing scrape across the linoleum. She positions it backwards at the left side of the girl's table and sits down, resting both of her arms upon the chair back. "Oh, Imogen, what are we going to do about you? What are we going to do?" She cracks a wide, impish smile while settling her chin atop her wrists and stares at the girl, not speaking a word, as though studying her; seeing straight through to the mechanisms of what makes her tick.

It feels creepy even having another person at the same table, but Imogen tries to settle back in on her tasks, reaching to her left for the cup she placed there while cautiously trying to avoid any errant contact with those intimidating eyeballs. She turns her body a bit to the right and enjoys another calming sip of her latte, -uungh!- but its taste now lacks the sweet salvation that was there before, and the bitterness of its base ingredient bites through instead, evoking a grimace. Disappointing, like that time at the bar with Alice and Joanzie. Or like my time management skills, she admonishes herself.

Despite not being able to glimpse the other end of the table from this angle, an almost sixth sense will not let Imogen be, poking and prodding to warn that she is still being directly stared at by the individual to her left. A growing discomfort rises in her belly and chest, caused by an uneasiness of being gazed upon for any extended period, ingrained in her over the years, and she wishes her irritating teammate would just leave. Her mind can think of nothing else. Concentration is out the door. So, maintaining a lack of eye contact, she declares with meek authority, "Did you...?! Um, are you here to get some coffee? You should... You could go do that now," slowly backing down from her outburst as she does, until it is almost a whisper; until it is a suggestion rather than a demand.

Monique sees the opportunity to pounce. "Ooh, a glimmer of assertiveness. That's a good start. Perhaps, training yourself to power talk during presentations and not be so reserved all the time? You'd need to grow a spine first for that, and start concentrating on what's important. You're off to fantasy land more often than the amount of work you put in, wasting your time on meaningless garbage like that. Where's that going to get you in life?"

"I... Well, no, I'm not. I haven't been there in quite some --"

"Look, I don't care. Give me your designs. Give me something to work with. How am I supposed to do my job when you're not doing your part of this forced collaboration? Do. The work." Monique eyes the notebook before snatching it back from Imogen's hand and holding it hostage in the air. "Is there anything in here you actually need for your project? Sketches of the product? Verbiage?"

"No! Give it back! I-I need it!"

Monique stands and flicks through some of the pages before deciding, "This is all story crap. I'll hold onto this so you don't get distracted. You can have it back after the presentation, and you better get it done. Email me with the concept before the end of today so I can start my planning process, understand?"

"But, I need --"

"Ut-tut-tut! We're done here. See you, loser." Then she sashays off in her air of superiority to either exit the shop or order from the barista behind the front counter.

Imogen remains still for a minute, listening to hear if she leaves out of the door, but she hears Monique's voice from the counter instead. Glancing sideways to catch a peek, she scowls and mumbles to herself, "I hope that's to-go, you witch," then turns back to the table to process what she should do next. I could run after her to try getting my notebook back. Mmm, no, she's right. I really need to concentrate on the project, and that thing is a great, huge temptation. She'll give it back tomorrow, after the presentation... if she feels I did a good enough job. She'll make up any excuse that I did something wrong. She will give it back, right? Yeah, if she doesn't ruin it in the meantime; dropping it in a gutter or... at her home. Uh! She might forget to bring it from home! Wait, she's gonna have it all night? At home? She's gonna read through it! Why wouldn't she? I probably would. All my thoughts and grievances, me blowing off steam, are in there!  She's gonna see that one picture I drew! And my newest story ideas that took me so long to write are all... in there too. I've got to get it back!

She turns, prepared to fly out of her seat like a hawk and swoop past, snatching it back from her greedy little mitts, but Monique is already gone. N-No! Where is she? Imogen runs to the front window of the shop and plasters her face against it, gazing down the lightly snow-covered city street at all the people to the left and then jerks it to the right... Eh? Left again! She's already out of sight? Back to the right... Then she flips her body around toward the shop, breathing erratically, and clings in horror with her back to the window, scanning the full length of the coffee shop as though her eyes are the most advanced technology, but unable to target her prey. It's useless. She's gone. And now the barista at the cash register is staring at her, probably debating if she needs to call the police.

"Um," the portly barista at the register with a nose ring, sporting a dark green hairdo, probably still in high school and just doing this for a part-time gig, waves with low enthusiasm to get her attention. "Would you mind not smearing your face prints all over the window? Now I'm gonna have to clean that, or have Joanah do it." The girl behind her, mixing the drinks, reacts at hearing what must be her name being called out.

Feeling repeatedly mocked, and still freaking out, Imogen side-scuttles away from the window, retreating to her seat; wishing she could turn invisible in this moment. She thinks, Oh, god! This is embarrassing. Now the whole café has borne witness... beared witness? to my insane behavior. And now... what? What about the notebook? She sits down, faced away from everyone, her back feeling on fire like a thousand needles are piercing into it from what she guesses is the entire occupancy of the coffee shop and everyone out on the street glaring in at her. I'm gonna have to move to another city. No, no, wait. It's not that serious. I'm gonna have to quit my job, that's all... And then maybe move. Ughhh! 

*Wham*

-Owweeee!- She just smacked her own head on the table?! That hurt, Imogen! Oh, and caused the latte to tip onto the floor from doing that and now it's splattered all over the place. Just great. Set it too close to the edge again.

Ugh. So dumb and awkward! Why am I this way? I suppose I'd better grab some napkins and clean it up. So embarrassing! Everybody probably saw that too.

Imogen stands to walk toward the supply counter where the napkins are, trying to hide her face from anyone watching, but promptly slips on the patch of freshly spilled coffee with her very first step. Talented. Quick, grab hold of something, idiot!... Flailing, but there is nothing. Figures.

*Thud*

Ow. . .

. . . .

Imogen becomes alert to someone speaking close by. Her forehead feels like angry hornets stung it out of spite, and now her back hurts too. She is dazed, but conscious. Vision at first blurry from tears, and squinting due to the light pouring in from a lit bulb aimed at her face, she gradually opens her eyes and sees the face of the pink and gold-haired barista who was making the drinks hovering sideways in front of her, talking to her, before realizing that she is laying on the floor next to the table, looking straight at the ceiling. Why am I- is Imogen, rather, on her back? What happened?

"Oh! She's coming to. Are you alright, miss?" asks the barista. "Um, what's your name? How many fingers am I holding up?"

"It's Imogen, but you wrote 'Emoji' on my cup. And you're holding up three fingers. Why are you asking?"

The barista girl answers, "Because you banged your head and then fell. Stay still, please. The paramedics are on their way," then adds in a sorrowful tone, "Sorry about messing up your name."

Imogen looks around and sees that there are people in the coffee shop backed away from the area, but staring in her direction. At least two appear to be filming her situation. Ah, no, we're not having any of that. I'm not gonna be the 5 o'clock news. She is not stressing out yet though, seeming to have calmed from earlier. "Did you say the EMTs are headed here?"

"Yes, they should be here soon to assist you, miss," the barista answers.

"Don't call me that. I'm not a 'miss'. And I'm not waiting around to be poked at and pulled out of here on a gurney." Imogen sits up and struggles back onto her feet, then grabs her computer, unplugs the cord from the wall, and starts stuffing them back in her bag.

"Ma'am, you shouldn't just walk out of here without getting check out by professionals. You could have a concussion."

"I'm also not a 'ma'am'," Imogen tells her, while slipping her thrift store brown parka on. Using her fingers, she feels her head in the spot that still hurts from having hit it. It is a little swollen. She asks the barista, "Does it look bad? You probably should have put some ice on it then. I know my rights and I'm refusing medical attention, so I'll be on my way now," then hikes the bag strap up over her shoulder and starts for the door. There is not enough time for a hospital visit. She knows she would be unable to afford the medical bills anyhow.

The barista, still on her knees for some reason, says, "Uh, well... Okay then. I was just trying to be helpful. H-have a good day then, Imogen. Do visit us again sometime." 

"Mmmh, not likely. This place is too many bad memories now," Imogen offers back as an excuse, though she will miss having a shop so close to home if she abandons this one.

Huddling together the front flaps of the parka with her free hand to hold it closed as well as can be expected, she steps out onto the snow-coated sidewalk and winces from a bitter cold worse than when she entered. The coat's zipper has been broken for almost a month and would be too expensive to have replaced. Her plan is to eventually go back to the thrift shop and purchase another, but she needs to make sure she can pay the rent and have enough money left over before that can happen.

Imogen starts down the street in the direction of home, frigid wind penetrating the exposed sweater and numbing her face. Somehow, she needs to crank out some well-formulated designs to impress the socks off of Monique before day's end and then have a fully-realized presentation together before the meeting with their supervisors tomorrow, all while contending with a self-inflicted headache. No sweat, right? She needs to hold onto this job to keep the bills from piling, so there is no choice but to make it happen. Life is sweet poison.