David Ellison (Father's POV)
-The city breathed a quiet sigh as dawn painted soft gold over the skyline. The chaos of the past weeks—the fear, the chases, the danger—had finally settled into something close to calm. Zootopia wasn't perfect, not yet, maybe not ever. But after everything they'd seen and done, Judy knew this: it was worth fighting for, one case, one act of kindness at a time.
Beside her, Nick strolled with his paws in his pockets, his trademark smirk tugging at the corner of his muzzle. "So, Carrots," he said, flicking an ear toward her, "think we've earned a real vacation this time? You know, sun, sand, zero missing mammal reports for at least a week?"
Judy laughed, ears twitching with amusement. "Knowing this city, we'd make it three hours before someone called us about a runaway marmot or a raccoon caught in a vending machine." She glanced up at him, a teasing sparkle in her eyes. "But sure, vacation sounds great. As long as you promise not to hustle the hotel staff."
"Me?" Nick placed a paw over his chest, feigning innocence. "Officer Hopps, I am deeply hurt that you'd even suggest such a thing. I'm a changed fox." But the sly grin that followed told her that would never really be true—and somehow, she wouldn't have it any other way.
As they walked on, the city came alive around them, traffic humming, birds calling, shop signs flickering to life. It wasn't the end of anything, just the start of the next day in a place where prey and predator still had a long way to go—but now, Judy thought, they were walking that road together. And that, more than anything, felt like hope.
I turned the page eagerly… only to realise I had finished reading the final one.
"So… what's the verdict, officers?" Jack 'asked', a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. His eyes were shining with mirth and a hint of smugness.
He damn well knew what the verdict was before Linda and I had started parsing through the pages in amazement.
… I couldn't even fault him for it.
My son… the apple of my eye, has always been smart for his age.
There were signs early on. You know how kids mess with adults, and then laugh in a demented manner, as if the sole purpose of our suffering was their amusement?
Jack, too, often engaged in the deplorable act, all kids do. Nothing wrong with that.
Except for a teeny tiny difference. Which, in retrospect, should have clued me in far earlier.
His antics weren't physical in nature.
They weren't loud or messy, and were certainly not followed by the obnoxious giggling that is often the case with my friend Raymond's little hellion.
On the contrary, they were verbal.
Witty, concise one-liners, uttered with just the right amount of dryness and sarcasm, followed by a grin; the epitome of childlike innocence.
His sense of humor was not only well-developed but also unusually mature.
At a glance, no one would bat an eye at him and his various idiosyncrasies.
But look deeper, spend some time with him… and anyone would notice that his mental germination outpaced his physical growth by far.
From the corner of my eyes, I could see Linda furiously wipe away her tears, clearly overwhelmed by what we had just read and, frankly, the deeper implications of it.
I set it aside before turning back to my son, who, despite feeling awkward, was clearly overjoyed at our reactions.
"Jack… I can barely find the words to express what I am going through right now. What you have here is amazing. Simply…" I imitated a chef's kiss. "As a historian, I have parsed through several texts, both fiction and non-fiction. Seldom have I encountered something so well-written, so profound. And to think it came from the mind of an 11-year-old." I muttered, shaking my head.
"Thanks, Dad, it means a lot to me." He said, losing his smug facade for a second.
"Jack dear, would you mind giving your father and me a moment to talk?" Linda asked, her smile never wavering despite the crack in her voice.
He nodded instantly, "Yes, sure. Take all the time you need, just call me back when you're done, yeah?" He jumped from the sofa before striding towards the staircase.
Once the sound of his footsteps ceased, Linda turned, staring me dead in the eye. "Oh, David…" She let out, before melting in my arms.
We embraced for a minute, silently mourning our boy's loss of innocence.
And then I finally gathered the courage to broach the elephant in the room. "Linda, our son is extraordinary. And I firmly believe we should encourage him in this pursuit of his."
Linda was apparently on the same wavelength. "True." She nodded, all the while wiping away at her eyes with a tissue. "My friend, Bessie. She's an editor at the 'Sun&Moon Press', why don't we invite her over sometime this week? Gain some insight first-hand."
I found myself inclined to agree, though not before adding my own 2 cents. "I know some guys in the literary department, will ask them about it tomorrow, maybe show them a copy or two, just to get a professional opinion before proceeding. I have a feeling this is gonna blow up big time, babe, I just know it deep down. Our little Jack-in-the-box is about to pop out and… I couldn't be more proud." I smile despite myself.
Jack Ellison (MC's POV)
"JACK DARLING! COME DOWN, WILL YOU?" My dear sweet Ma beckons, as I hop off my bed and rush down.
Yeah, I was impatient as hell. Finally, things were getting interesting, and I was at the forefront of it all.
'Thanks a ton, Jared and Phil. Your work is about to be put out 3 decades before it would've seen the light of day. I shall keep your names in my heart forever.'
I skip down the flight of stairs… well, jump down really, before composing myself, barely managing to tone down my eagerness for what would follow next.
"Take a seat, Jack." Dad pointed to a cushioned chair opposite the sofa.
I plopped down on it, resisting the urge to rub my hands in the imitation of a campy villain.
"Now, Jack dear." Mom started, "Let me express this again. We are both very, very proud of you, and we believe with the bottom of our hearts that one day soon, you will grow up to be a highly accomplished author. Nothing stings us more than missing out on the development of your talent, but you stepped up and took some real initiative."
Dad bobbed his head along before cutting in. "Now, your mom and I discussed this at length. And we believe that this book is so spectacularly written that it should be sitting on bookshelves around the country, and not just gathering dust on a desk. Now we understand this is a huge step we are suggesting, and it can be scary for someone your age-"
'Oh hell no, not the patronizing crap again! I understand where they're coming from, considering they think I am 11. But goddamn it, I am too old for this shit.'
And so with that line of thought, I interrupt him, "Dad, I understand. I wrote this intending to publish it. In fact, I also have plans to adapt it into a comic book with illustrations and toned-down dialogue. I have roughly 20 sketches ready for the characters and various settings, with many more to cook up as soon as I find the time, so let's cut to the chase, why don't we? When are we fixing a meeting?" I ask, enjoying the moment far more than I have any right to, as their faces grow more and more incredulous.
"... You've really thought this through, haven't you?" Dad questions, peering at me from behind his glasses.
"Dad, with all due respect… when have I not?" I deadpan, alluding to several instances in the past where I had displayed my cleverness in ways no kid my age ever does.
They turned to each other, holding a dialogue with their eyes, before turning back to me. "Tuesday, after you get back from school. Your mom has an editor friend, who we believe will offer relevant advice, tailored to this situation."
This time, I failed in holding back my excitement.
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It was Tuesday night. The sun had set, and the neighbourhood was mostly enveloped in a calm peace… with the sole exception being my living room, where my Mom's friend Bessie was busy losing the last of her marbles.
"YOU'RE TELLING ME, THAT JACK, THIS KID RIGHT HERE-" She pointed at me, while pacing around, "WROTE 'THIS'... ENTIRELY ON HIS OWN?!" She asked, waving the pages around like a conductor.
"Yes, Bessie, why don't you drink some water-" My mom nodded before her voice was promptly over-ridden.
"Oh, don't you Bessie me, Linda! Do you have any, I repeat, ANY IDEA WHAT THIS ENTAILS?!"
"We don't actually, that's why we decided to bring you in. But first, take a deep breath-" My dad tried calming her down.
Big Mistake.
"Of course you don't! No parents would! After all, how many of them can boast of raising an 11-something kid who wrote the most intense, and yet earnest allegory of rising racial tensions amid an ongoing drug epidemic?! David, Linda… let me reiterate this in words you can comprehend. YOUR SON IS A GENIUS BEYOND COMPARE! And if you will just allow me to have my way with him-" Woah! Phrasing lady! "He'll be the youngest self-made millionaire, much less a bestselling author, by the end of this year! You hear me?! End of this fuc-"
"LANGUAGE!" My parents did their level best impression of Captain America. A for effort, I guess.
It worked, though, considering she flinched, glancing down at my deadpan countenance before correcting herself mid-sentence, "... ducking year."
"Wow, you totally have me fooled," I say glibly, as her face flushes deeply. "Also, unlike my parents, I did have a cursory idea of what my feat entailed. I was aware of the bestselling part. But tell me, were you serious about the millionaire bit?"
She groaned heavily, "Feels disconcerting to hear a kid talk like that, but… yeah. Provided the publishing contract is ironclad and a hefty royalty is negotiated."
"So we need an agent?" Mom piped in, sensing the opening I created.
"Oh, definitely. And not just a good one, someone you can trust consummately. Since he's a minor, publishing houses will try to sneak in all kinds of clauses meant to exploit him as a revenue stream. You need someone to hold down the fort while the kid shakes the world." She paused, "I can help you find one."
Dad jumped in, offering a hand, "That would be immensely appreciated, Bessie; we would be in your debt." He shook hers rather vigorously, all the while glancing at the front door.
Something told me he wanted her out ASAP, considering his affinity with peace. Then Mom flashed a look at him, something along the lines of 'I know what you're up to, and hell no, she is my friend', which quickly cowed my Dad's enthusiasm.
Bessie, meanwhile, didn't notice any of it, too busy being bashful after all. I guess a little flattery does get you places now and then…
"Not at all, David, happy to do it!" She rubs her neck timidly, a sharp contrast from her earlier persona. "You did me a favor to be honest. Coming in, I had no clue I would be part of something so significant! And you, Jack." She turned around, "You are a very talented young boy, you hear me? Don't let anyone tell you otherwise!"
I mean… I knew that well enough, but I suppose a humble persona would do wonders for my likability. No one likes a know-it-all pre-teen after all. Case in point, Hermione Granger.
"Thanks, Aunt Bessie!" My cheeks flush a little. "Also, after we get an agent, can we publish through your company? I don't think I would get the wool pulled over my eyes if you were there with me…" I look down coyly, rather impressed by my improvised acting ability.
"Oh, you sweet little thing, of course! Aunt Bessie will be there with you all the way, okay?!" She proceeds to practically mangle my face, trying to stretch my cheeks like a band of rubber.
Sometimes… I am quite tempted to lavish praise on myself. This was for sure one of those moments.
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Douglas Messerli (Editor-in-Chief's POV)
It had been months since I had left my tenure-track professorship at Temple, and barely a single text, worth my time as a full-time editor, had made it to my desk this year.
So imagine my fascination as I glanced upon what I could only conclude to be a veritable masterpiece.
Straight from the mind of a boy on the cusp of adolescence. I had refused to entertain the thought at first. It seemed like a far-fetched movie back then, when Bessie had burst through the doors of my office, holding what she claimed was something not just literarily noteworthy, but outstanding from a cultural perspective.
I was tempted to scoff at her before having my lovely assistant book a psychiatric ward in her name.
But her insistence finally wore me down.
And thank Heavens and the Almighty Jesus that it did. For I had stumbled upon something... incandescent.
"A child who writes, not to escape but rather to understand the world around him," I muttered, still clutching the collection of pages.
The allegory of predators and prey, something that could potentially speak to people about institutional bias and fearmongering, all the while staying true to its roots as an engaging buddy cop comedy.
A work of resistance literature, disguised in animal fur.
I wasted no time in calling Bessie pronto.
She strutted in, clearly all too pleased with herself. I'll let her have this round. It's not often my sensibilities are proven wrong so often, after all.
"Bessie, I want you to hold your hand over your heart, swear to me that an 11-year-old cooked this up, and penned it entirely by himself with no assistance from anyone. Not even the most remotely possible avenue he could have turned to." I gazed deep into her eyes, ensuring she realized how fucking serious I was.
Her eyes widened momentarily, before she followed through without an ounce of hesitation.
I exhaled deeply, wiping off the beads of sweat on my hairline.
"Penny for your thoughts, Doug?"
"Bessie, call his parents up, schedule an appointment ASAP. Tell Carla on your way out to clear my schedule for the day... I got some edits to make." I declared, cracking my fingers menacingly before grabbing a pen.
"Doug, I talked to the kid. He was really dead set on not changing a thing. Said he would either release it as it is, or not at all." She spoke hesitantly, clearly caught between a rock and a hard place.
I raised an eyebrow in turn, "Then the 'kid' will have to learn the value of compromise, because no way in hell am I letting the nudist club scene remain. Also, a couple of other minor changes."
Bessie moved to speak, but I held my palm out. "Bessie, as an editor, it is my solemn responsibility to shield my client from any form of backlash he may face. And when we start claiming he wrote it, we'll be met with a wave of skepticism. Let's not hand over additional ammunition to the literary gatekeepers of our age, shall we? If he's got half the brain you claim he does, he'll understand. The way he wrote it... Here's an idea. If he harbors doubts, tell him I said, 'I got no intention of Disney-fying it'. It'll help wonders with his compliance, trust me."
And with that tidbit done and said, I sent her out.
'Any kid sold on his own maturity will respond favorably if his work doesn't get dumbed down into a cash cow.'
My face twists into a grin despite myself, as I ponder the work some more. While not overly experimental in form, it's radically avant-garde in its impact.
Ooh, I can imagine the headlines already, ' An adolescent tackling inherant prejudice, when adults failed to'...
A chuckle escapes my lips.
'Jack Ellison... you are certainly proving to be a cornucopia of trouble, aren't you?'
Then again, I wouldn't have it any other way if this is the result.