Status: On hiatus
Fact or Fiction?
Ophelia Ramsey
I stumbled into my house shortly after midnight. I dropped my luggage unceremoniously on the living room floor and plopped myself on my couch. I closed my eyes and was about to fall asleep when my phone rang.
Slurring a string of profanities, I dug it out of my purse.
Charles Spiron
I groaned but slid the green icon.
“What?” I mumbled, snuggling into the pillows and pulling the blanket from the couch over my body.
“Are you home yet?”
“Yes.” I yawned. “Please tell me you don’t have another tour lined up for me.”
He sighed. “Your book has been the number one for six months, Ophelia! People are dying to meet you!”
I shook my head. “Give me two months,” I said. “I need to recover from this last one. I cannot believe you sent me to Bora Bora without letting me take a few days off to enjoy it!”
He scoffed. “You wouldn’t’ve come home and you know it. All right; take six months to loosen up again.”
“You’re a saint!” I said. “Best agent ever.”
He laughed. “Yes, I think I’ve gotten the message on that one. How many mugs do I have with that on it?”
I laughed, too. “Good night, Charles.”
“Sleep tight.”
I hung up and shut my eyes, falling asleep in less than two seconds.
-
My name is Ophelia Ramsey. My parents were famous authors, co-writing several books together as well as individual best sellers. Our house had been more of a library than a house, frankly. I was reading by the age of two and I’ve held a love of books ever since then.
When my mother died, though, my father stopped writing and fell into deep depression. I was 12 and had to pick up the pieces of the house and finances. My dad pretty much drank himself into a stupor every day. It was heartbreaking to see so I went to the one thing that could get me out of my problems:
Writing.
It became my drug; my heroin. I have a large box stuck in the back of my closet bursting with old journals I had written in. I filled at least three every year. When I was sixteen, I wrote my first book. It was a piece of shit but I had a friend who helped me fine tune it.
By seventeen, I was a published author. My success was enough to bring my dad out of his alcohol habit and he cleaned up. Unfortunately, the alcohol had the time to destroy his liver. He was alive long enough to make it to see my second successful book.
It was my turn to resist the bottle. That was a dark time for me. I was 20 and just went through a bad break up at the same time. I shut myself away and that’s when I met Charles.
I was at the liquor store, buying three bottles of tequila and rum, when he tripped into me, causing me to drop them all. I went into a rage and he recognized me. Everyone knew my father had died and he had that stupid look of pity in his eyes. After helping clean, he dragged me to the nearest coffee shop and gave me a sort of pep talk.
It did the job and I cut myself off completely.
“Bad idea,” Charles said as I poured every alcoholic drink down the sink.
“Shut up,” I snapped, trying to ignore my pounding headache.
“Ophelia, you can’t just go cold turkey! You need to-”
“I said shut up!”
That was three years ago. Now I was still an oddity to people. A successful, published author at only 24 years old with three books under her belt? It wasn’t normal and I had hundreds of news people and magazines dying to interview me.
I was able to do the one thing I wanted to do above all else:
Own my own bookstore.
I named it Aria’s after my mother. I held books from every genre but my favorite section was near the window. Knowing how hard it was to become a new author, I printed three copies of an author’s manuscript that I liked and put it on display. Many young people got their hold in this world through that and it made me feel connected to my father.
Despite it all, I’m incredibly lonely. I have Charles and a couple employees but that’s it. All the men in my life have been interested in my money and celebrity status. It was heart breaking and I just gave up on relationships. Charles suggested one night stands but I wasn’t that kind of person. Hell, I haven’t even lost my virginity yet.
Today, that would change.
-
I was snoring, drooling all over the leather couch, when someone pounded on my front door. I moaned.
“Go away!” I moaned, knowing that knock.
“Come on! It’s time for coffee!” my friend, Lucy, sang.
“No coffee. More sleep.”
“Don’t make me come in there,” she threatened.
“Bitch.”
“Whore.”
“Slut.”
I dragged myself off the couch, wiping the drool off my chin, and opened the door. Lucy stood there, beaming at me. Lucy was my best friend; she had been for several years. We met at the liquor store she worked at and kept in touch. When I sobered up she had quit her job so we drifted with each other. Now she was my manager at my book store and I was very happy with that.
“C’mon in,” I yawned. “Just let me shower and get into something that doesn’t reek of airport.”
She laughed as I shuffled into my bedroom. I stretched. The tour had been my longest yet: five months. Charles wanted me to stay longer but I missed my home and my bookstore. I inherited the house from my father and it looked exactly as it had when he left this earth.
“Hurry up!” Lucy shouted from my bedroom.
I rolled my eyes but smiled. I was putting on my makeup and, knowing she was on the other side of the door, I shoved it open. She squealed as I barely missed her then kicked my shins.
“You’re awful,” she pretended to pout.
I laughed and looped my arm through hers.
“Let’s go get some coffee.”
Slurring a string of profanities, I dug it out of my purse.
Charles Spiron
I groaned but slid the green icon.
“What?” I mumbled, snuggling into the pillows and pulling the blanket from the couch over my body.
“Are you home yet?”
“Yes.” I yawned. “Please tell me you don’t have another tour lined up for me.”
He sighed. “Your book has been the number one for six months, Ophelia! People are dying to meet you!”
I shook my head. “Give me two months,” I said. “I need to recover from this last one. I cannot believe you sent me to Bora Bora without letting me take a few days off to enjoy it!”
He scoffed. “You wouldn’t’ve come home and you know it. All right; take six months to loosen up again.”
“You’re a saint!” I said. “Best agent ever.”
He laughed. “Yes, I think I’ve gotten the message on that one. How many mugs do I have with that on it?”
I laughed, too. “Good night, Charles.”
“Sleep tight.”
I hung up and shut my eyes, falling asleep in less than two seconds.
-
My name is Ophelia Ramsey. My parents were famous authors, co-writing several books together as well as individual best sellers. Our house had been more of a library than a house, frankly. I was reading by the age of two and I’ve held a love of books ever since then.
When my mother died, though, my father stopped writing and fell into deep depression. I was 12 and had to pick up the pieces of the house and finances. My dad pretty much drank himself into a stupor every day. It was heartbreaking to see so I went to the one thing that could get me out of my problems:
Writing.
It became my drug; my heroin. I have a large box stuck in the back of my closet bursting with old journals I had written in. I filled at least three every year. When I was sixteen, I wrote my first book. It was a piece of shit but I had a friend who helped me fine tune it.
By seventeen, I was a published author. My success was enough to bring my dad out of his alcohol habit and he cleaned up. Unfortunately, the alcohol had the time to destroy his liver. He was alive long enough to make it to see my second successful book.
It was my turn to resist the bottle. That was a dark time for me. I was 20 and just went through a bad break up at the same time. I shut myself away and that’s when I met Charles.
I was at the liquor store, buying three bottles of tequila and rum, when he tripped into me, causing me to drop them all. I went into a rage and he recognized me. Everyone knew my father had died and he had that stupid look of pity in his eyes. After helping clean, he dragged me to the nearest coffee shop and gave me a sort of pep talk.
It did the job and I cut myself off completely.
“Bad idea,” Charles said as I poured every alcoholic drink down the sink.
“Shut up,” I snapped, trying to ignore my pounding headache.
“Ophelia, you can’t just go cold turkey! You need to-”
“I said shut up!”
That was three years ago. Now I was still an oddity to people. A successful, published author at only 24 years old with three books under her belt? It wasn’t normal and I had hundreds of news people and magazines dying to interview me.
I was able to do the one thing I wanted to do above all else:
Own my own bookstore.
I named it Aria’s after my mother. I held books from every genre but my favorite section was near the window. Knowing how hard it was to become a new author, I printed three copies of an author’s manuscript that I liked and put it on display. Many young people got their hold in this world through that and it made me feel connected to my father.
Despite it all, I’m incredibly lonely. I have Charles and a couple employees but that’s it. All the men in my life have been interested in my money and celebrity status. It was heart breaking and I just gave up on relationships. Charles suggested one night stands but I wasn’t that kind of person. Hell, I haven’t even lost my virginity yet.
Today, that would change.
-
I was snoring, drooling all over the leather couch, when someone pounded on my front door. I moaned.
“Go away!” I moaned, knowing that knock.
“Come on! It’s time for coffee!” my friend, Lucy, sang.
“No coffee. More sleep.”
“Don’t make me come in there,” she threatened.
“Bitch.”
“Whore.”
“Slut.”
I dragged myself off the couch, wiping the drool off my chin, and opened the door. Lucy stood there, beaming at me. Lucy was my best friend; she had been for several years. We met at the liquor store she worked at and kept in touch. When I sobered up she had quit her job so we drifted with each other. Now she was my manager at my book store and I was very happy with that.
“C’mon in,” I yawned. “Just let me shower and get into something that doesn’t reek of airport.”
She laughed as I shuffled into my bedroom. I stretched. The tour had been my longest yet: five months. Charles wanted me to stay longer but I missed my home and my bookstore. I inherited the house from my father and it looked exactly as it had when he left this earth.
“Hurry up!” Lucy shouted from my bedroom.
I rolled my eyes but smiled. I was putting on my makeup and, knowing she was on the other side of the door, I shoved it open. She squealed as I barely missed her then kicked my shins.
“You’re awful,” she pretended to pout.
I laughed and looped my arm through hers.
“Let’s go get some coffee.”