A/N This is going to be a legitimate story, and not a one-shot. Since is this the first chapter, it's kinda short—actually, it's really short. Read it and then tell me if I should keep writing this story. Reviews are appreciated!
I do not own any of Cassandra Clare's characters.
Cereal… Yogurt… Pasta… Coffee… Cookies… Check.
I reviewed my grocery list and then nodded, pushing the rickety shopping cart to the check-out line. I automatically steered my cart to line number four, and without even glancing up, started unpacking my cart.
I sighed. "Melinda, you wouldn't believe how many drafts Mr. Curtis wants me to turn in by tomorrow."
"Nope. You're right. I probably wouldn't."
My head snapped up. That definitely wasn't Melinda. Instead, an angel was checking the barcode on my coffee. He had blonde hair, the kind always that always falls perfectly into place no matter what, with pale skin and golden eyes. He was the kind of person that I sketched all the time: story-book perfect.
"Who are you?" I asked, momentarily forgetting about the fact that all the employees wore name tags.
Without even looking up from my Fiber-Fit strawberry yogurt, he said, "My name is Arthur, King of the Britons."
Because I am not a socially awkward person, and am chock-full of witty comebacks, I said eloquently, "But… but… I mean, where's Melinda? And why are you here? Um… And—what are you doing to my cereal?"
He had ripped open the top of my raison bran and was now proceeding to take the bag of cereal out. "To answer your questions, I believe that your dear Melinda is lounging somewhere on a beach— the Caribbean, if I'm not mistaken. I myself am seeking the Holy Grail, seeing as it is my quest set before me by the almighty… Actually, I can't remember who gave me my quest, but it is a noble quest, nonetheless, and involves raisons." As he said this, he opened the cereal itself and took out a raison. "That leads me to my next answer: You, miss, have been dreadfully deceived."
"I… have?" I said uncertainly, confused about how The Holy Grail, an angel, and some (what I thought was) perfectly normal raison bran had led me to be dreadfully deceived.
"Yes. This raison is an imposter. It is not, in fact, a raison." He was nodding gravely, and continued saying, "It is a crasin. A cranberry pretending to be a raison. Horrible, isn't it?"
"Perfectly terrible," I agreed. "Although I would appreciate it if you put my cereal back into it's bag."
He made a face. "You mean you still intend to buy this shallow excuse for raison bran?"
"Yes, I do," I said.
He was shaking his head, but he continued to bag my groceries, including my now open raison bran.
"So what's your real name?" I asked, curious.
"I already told you my real name," he answered.
"No, you told me a fictional character's name," I corrected him.
"I, ma'am, am deeply offended." He showed me his name tag. "See?"
Written on his shiny blue name tag were the words: 'Hello! My name is KG. ARTHUR, AND ESQ.'
"And Esquire?" I said blankly.
"Yes. That's him over there." He pointed to a black-haired boy two registers away, who glared at me. "Charming, isn't he?"
"So what's your name?"
"Clary," I said.
"Well, Clary, thank you for shopping at SmartMart!" He handed me my bag and my receipt. "Remember that we're having a pickle sale next week, and remember to join the Vendetta Against Raison Imposters. We have an on-line site now."
"Ok…" I grabbed my bag and left the grocery store, feeling slightly flustered.
Right before I left the grocery store, I bumped into a man wearing a thick leather biker jacket. As I mumbled an apology, I looked up into his face and screamed. He had a sucker instead of a mouth, and two crude holes in the side of his head for ears. He had weird antennae-like things coming from the top of his head, and his skin had a wet, slimy quality about it. Then I blinked, and I was looking up at a perfectly normal 30-year old man.
I sighed in relief and apologized profusely to the man. Looking confused, the man nodded and walked hurriedly away, probably scared of the whacko girl who was seeing monsters and carrying a box of open raison bran.
The guy from the register said, "Are you all right?"
I hadn't even noticed him get there. "Yeah, I'm fine. I guess I'm just really tired or something… I thought I saw… Well, it doesn't matter."
"If you say so." His eyes were looking at me closely. I saw what looked like curiosity, uncertainty, and what looked like… concern? Then he blinked, and all emotions were gone.
Feeling suddenly self-conscious, I clutched my bags closer to me and hurried out. My heart was still going a million miles an hour from the scare I had had. I turned around just outside the store, just in time to see the blonde angel talking to the black-haired boy, his Esquire.
I jumped into my car and slammed the door shut, promising myself to make a super strong espresso when I got home.
It was only when I was halfway home when I started wondering how on earth Melinda had afforded a spontaneous trip to the Caribbean.