Huxley & Ellowyn Volume One

By Alexander sullivan

Huxley Scarlett is a writer in the city of Chicago. Though his career started off strong, he’s quickly lost popularity with his fans. Wandering from failed book to failed book, he struggles to make ends meet. Suddenly, his distant Uncle dies, and since Huxley is his only living relative his belongings come to him.
Along with a small amount of wealth, he gets two boxes worth of items that are now his inheritance. In the first box are various knick-knacks, some photos, and a single, unforgotten book, while in the second, much smaller box is a few pieces of jewelry as well as a note and a strange antique pen. With it is a note that convinces Huxley to use this pen. The note tells Huxley that he can use the pen to write anything into existence except for money, and the pen cannot change anything that has already happened, nor can it alter the future (such as change the outcome of a future football game) and that if the article that the item being written in is destroyed, so too will the item.
This pen allows the writer to write ideas into existence. He’s skeptical at first, but after some experimentation proves his late Uncle’s words true, his shut-in lifestyle provokes an even better idea: The Perfect Girl. Why not write in the best girlfriend he could ever have?
Huxley takes this idea and quickly spirals with it, taking his time to think up and flesh out the perfect girl in his mind, and he finally writes her in.
Only the "woman" ends up being Twelve years old. Now forced with taking care of her, Huxley must use his gifted ink carefully, but he’s not ready for the life-changing impact that this girl will bring him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: May 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781716926891

Book preview

*E/U* Introduction I.

I’ve made some mistakes in my life. Not all of them I grieve, however. As I write this, I have two things continually reminding me of this factor. One is my phone, blown up with messages from various people who are--believe it or not--amazing at critiquing me at any given notice.

Secondly, I have a small, tiny, annoying finger gesturing from word to word as I write this, telling me good options for words, pointing out my typos, and correcting my grammar usage. Now, as an author, I can’t say that this particularly bothers me. What does bother me about this circumstance, however, is that the one correcting me is eleven years old.

And now, I have successfully confused you. Before I tell you all of the stories that led me to this point, I think I should tell you the beginning. An introduction of sorts that will give a bit of understanding as to where I’m coming from, how I got here, and what agents in my life will keep me going…

*E/U* Introduction II.

September 20th, 8:43pm

Sorry, Huxley. But I can’t accept this manuscript. I gripped my hair, frustrated. I hung the phone up without another word, not even bothering to say goodbye to my publishing agent. Another failed manuscript. Another failed book. Another wasted month.

I closed my laptop and sighed, leaning back in my chair. I stared at my ceiling, lost to the world around me in the darkness of my room. Trash was strewn about everywhere, beginning to actually make travel through my apartment impossible. Though it was nothing special, when my home wasn’t filled with trash it was a pleasant little one-bedroom one-bathroom, a comfortable living space for a once-popular author. I turned my head to the small bookshelf that leaned against my wall, filled with all my book ideas, published and not. On the far left was the only hardcover, completely bound and published book I’d ever had. My one masterpiece, my only accomplishment as a writer.

My phone rang, vibrating my desk. I answered it hesitantly, not wanting to talk to anybody.

Mr. Scarlett, the voice of my agent flared through the speaker. If you ever hang up on me again I’ll personally kill you. I winced, imagining that she wasn’t kidding.

Sorry, Mckenna. She huffed, but I knew she’d forgive me. She always did.

You’d better be… anyways as I was saying. Hux, if you can’t get a book together in the next month I’ll have to give up your publication spot. I rubbed my temples, not wanting to think about what I would do if she had to do that. I was almost broke, the popularity of my novel having spiked downward after the release of newer, better novels. The royalties barely covered the bills, and sometimes it didn’t.

I understand. Thanks, Ken.

Her voice warmed, though still irritated. Get me something soon. Talk to you later. she hung up, and I tossed my phone harshly back on my desk. My fifteen minutes had come and gone, but I still had hope that one day my book would sell. One day.

My phone rang again. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me… I snatched it up and looked at the number. It was from Oregon, and the only person I knew from there was my distant Uncle, Sean.

Hello, this is Huxley Scarlett, who may this be?

The voice on the other end was professional sounding. Something about his tone was serious but cold, uncaring. Hello. This is Don Frell, I’m calling to inform you that your Uncle, Sean Scarlett, has passed away.

I almost dropped my phone, shock striking me hard. I stammered a haphazard response, not sure what to say. Uh… what… how?

The man was ready with his response. He passed away a few hours ago from medical conditions relating to the heart. You’re his last of kin. Last of kin? That couldn’t be right, I had an Aunt out in California. Or was that on my mother’s side?

Uh… so why, um, why are you calling me?

I’m calling to let you know you’ve inherited ten thousand dollars, as well as two boxes worth of belongings that need to be mailed to your address, which I need you to supply.

This was moving too fast, I wasn’t even sure what to do. Oh sure… I gave him my address and he exchanged it with an apology, saying he understood this was a hard time for everyone in the family. I didn’t want to tell him I barely knew him, that the last time I had seen or thought about Uncle Sean was when I was in Kindergarten. Instead, I accepted his words and hung up, this time setting my phone down lightly.

I stumbled to the bathroom, still in a haze. I didn’t know him well but it still saddened me to know that someone in my family--another person in my family--was no longer around. I stepped into the shower and let the hot water run over me as I considered the contents of the boxes being sent to me. The ten thousand dollars was nice but… in all reality, it would only last me a few months before it ran out, especially if I didn’t get a book published in that time. Thankfully, however, it gave me a little time to work with. I needed time.

***

September 28th, 11:30am

The boxes arrived a week later, and as the man had told me they came in a pair. Both were semi-large, but nothing massive. I signed for them and set them on my kitchen counter a moment later. My kitchen, living room, and main entrance were all connected into a messy, decorative room that--when clean--was comfy and cozy. I used a kitchen knife to cut the tape and opened the first box with fervor, curiosity driving my actions. It was exactly what I expected as my inheritance. A letter with the check for the money, a few pieces of jewelry--I didn’t wear any, so to me, it wasn’t important--and some souvenirs from various states and landmarks. A snowglobe of Miami as well. I slid the box to the side and opened the next, this one smaller than the first. Inside was only three things, but the first thing that caught my eye truly surprised me. I removed my novel, a light layer of dust covering the front. I stared into the eyes of my main character, who donned the front. Was my Uncle a fan of my work? I went to set it down, but a note slipped out of the cover.

Don’t let this be all that you’re