LitWit Challenge: The Universe is a Library
We might argue that libraries are singularities—so many fictional and non-fictional lives, so many time periods converging on a single point. At the very least, they make excellent settings for stories.
The LitWit Challenge this month, should you choose to accept it, is to write a story of 500 words or more set in a library. Any library, actual or imaginary. It could be a mystery in which the heroine races against time to locate a vital piece of information that would save civilization. It could be a time-travel adventure in which library patrons can enter the worlds described in books. It could be a horror thriller in which library patrons are walled up in the stacks. It could be a romance in which an anonymous admirer leaves love letters spelled out by the spines of old books. It could be Anything.
Post your stories in Comments before Sunday, 20 April 2014. The winner will receive a toy Philippine Eagle and 8 Twisted books signed by the author.
Start writing.
Answers to questions you might be asking, unless you wandered onto this site purely by accident >>>
April 9th, 2014 at 16:12
OMG sa prizes!!!
April 17th, 2014 at 21:05
INCH BY INCH
by: Allan Carreon
“Two hundred nine, two hundred ten, two hundred eleven…”
The girl appeared, in her immaculate uniform, from behind the Literature section. Mrs. Palmera knew she was a regular in the library – a Nursing student, if she wasn’t mistaken. Annie, that was her name, Mrs. Palmera now recalled.
And Annie’s voice was getting louder as she walked by the shelf.
“Quiet, miss!” Mrs. Palmera hissed.
Startled, Annie turned to look at the librarian. The student’s eyes widened in confusion, then a flash of fear crossed her face. “You made me lose count!” she cried.
“What?” Mrs. Palmera asked, but Annie had already scampered back to the other side of the shelf. Mrs. Palmera thought she heard the student mumbling something, but she wasn’t quite sure. She decided to ignore her.
It was a rainy Saturday morning, and Mrs. Palmera wished she weren’t here today. There was no one in the library save for her and Annie, and why should there be? Finals had just ended, and students were eager to go on semestral break.
But Mrs. Palmera was required to be here; it was her job, and the library would remain open even during the break. What genius thought that up, she wanted to strangle. As it was, she had no social life. Her husband was dead, and dating options were limited for someone in her mid-fifties. But this didn’t mean she couldn’t go out to catch a movie, or perhaps do her groceries. She wanted more bacon.
Instead, she was stuck here with that strange girl who was still reciting something from behind the shelves.
Numbers, they sounded.
What the hell was she doing?
Just then, Annie appeared from behind the shelves once more. “Two hundred nine, two hundred ten, two hundred eleven, two hundred twelve, two hundred thirteen…” Her voice was rather jittery, and as she progressed, her voice was getting louder. Again.
“Miss, I said keep it down!” Mrs. Palmera said testily.
Not that it really mattered since no one else was around, but Mrs. Palmera wasn’t feeling particularly generous this morning. She could be having a cup of hot choco in a Starbucks somewhere, listening to music on her mp3 player, no books in sight. Instead, all she could see were endless rows of tall bookshelves, high ceilings, and mezzanines that held stupid video archives.
“You made me lose count again!” Annie cried, then she bolted back to the other side of the shelf.
Annie seemed shorter somehow.
Mrs. Palmera didn’t know why she noticed that.
But she didn’t care. She just wished she were on a beach somewhere, sipping margaritas by the shore, Ding beside her. But there were no beaches this break, and Ding was in prison.
At least he proved he loved her.
Husbands were such a pain unless they were choking on their own blood. By your own hand.
But prison could have been… inconvenient.
Thank goodness Ding loved her.
Annie appeared again.
“Two hundred nine, two hundred ten, two hundred eleven, two hund…”
“All right, that’s it!” Mrs. Palmera snapped, abruptly standing up from her desk.
“I lost count again!” Annie cried, hurrying away.
As Mrs. Palmera walked towards the shelves, she saw a trail of blood on the floor. Her measured, dignified footsteps gave way to flustered, hurried strides, and as she made a turn around the shelf, she saw Annie counting the books again.
“Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen…”
The girl’s feet had been sliced off, blood oozing out of the stump. Beside her, a grinning charcoal-black man stood; he wore an immaculate suit. The man’s gaze – his eyes red – fell upon Mrs. Palmera.
“Hello, Loren,” he said. “Annie made a deal with me, you know. Much like you. And just like you, she didn’t even know it.”
Mrs. Palmera could not move, but she managed a gasp of, “Annie!”
The girl turned, startled, and then she cried, “I lost count again!”
“Tsk-tsk,” the man said. He took a huge sword and, just as Annie began to count the books once more, he took a swing at her legs. Blood spurted as a chunk of flesh flew off. “One inch for every time you have to start over again, little girl. I really would love to know how many books there are in this place.”
Annie started to count again, becoming even more frenzied.
“Thirty-four thousand nine hundred twenty-seven!” Mrs. Palmera shouted.
“Well, that’s just cheating, Madam Librarian,” the man said. “Cheating doesn’t count. Even if you’re so good at it. So Annie here will keep on counting these books. And when she’s done, she’ll count them again. And again. And again. And she will not lose count, will she? Because once all those inches are gone, she’ll just regenerate, and we’ll do this over again. At least her boyfriend died just counting the beads of sweat on his arms only once after he took that poisoned juice. Right here in the library, too. Near where your husband was killed, actually.”
Annie’s eyes were now crazed as she kept on counting.
The man slowly approached Mrs. Palmera. The smell of sulfur permeated the air. “Now, about that deal we had, Loren.”
Mrs. Palmera began to back away from the man. As she stepped back, she glanced at her desk, where she now sat lifeless, her head tilted at an angle.
“You’ve had too much bacon, Loren,” the man said. “Counting the books here will be too easy for you since you’re the librarian.”
He pushed her against a stack of un-indexed new arrivals. Mrs. Palmera turned to see a huge box beside it. There was a strange white void inside, filled with nothing but floating words and punctuation marks.
Arial, some of them. Calligraphy. Time New Roman. Handwriting.
“These are the words of unfinished books in the minds of famous writers long gone, Loren dear. Shakespeare. Plath. Wilde. Browning. Lovecraft. Poe. And more. So, so many more. Thousands. Their words just drift around in a vast eternity where they, unfortunately, would never be expressed. Don’t they deserve more?”
The man’s malevolent grin grew wider as he licked his lips. His tongue was strangely snake-like. Behind him, a doppelganger of the man had appeared and was now following Annie closely as the girl continued counting.
“Time for you to organize and lay them out into the poems and stories and essays they were meant to be, Loren. You simply grab a word or a punctuation mark, and voila! It goes into a blank book. And I’ll be watching. One wrong word, one misplaced preposition, one plotline gone astray, and one inch of you will be sliced off. Every single time.”
Mrs. Palmera felt a strange power going through her limbs as a blank book materialized in front of her. Her hands were being forced to reach into the big box of dancing words.
“Now,” the man said, taking out a sword, “shall we start with Tolkien?”
— END —
April 18th, 2014 at 09:56
Lives in Books
Nobody knew where the Library came from. Nobody knew who the Librarian was for that matter. Their use of “the” and the capital L was probably a joke. The Library appeared out of nowhere, almost as if by magic. It stayed for as long as the Librarian stayed young. When the Librarian looked too old to work, the Library would close down; its books shipped off to unknown locales. The Library would be reopened somewhere far, far away. The Librarian — new age, new looks, new name — would run it, and the process would start anew.
If one were to chart the sightings, one would find a jumping line which circled the globe.
—
In France, the Library had cushiony settees and a decorative gate wrought in black iron. In Sweden, the look was streamlined and utilitarian, all its furniture bought from IKEA. The changes made the Library fit in with its surroundings, made it indistinguishable from other establishments which lent books, made it more difficult to trace.
The changes, however, were not as drastic as the Librarian’s.
In the 1940s, the librarian’s name was Takashiro Ibuki (Asakusa Kurenaidan, Yasunari Kawabata, Japanese Language Collection).
In the United States at the turn of the century, she was Mary Dorothy Jenkins (Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Harriet Beecher Stowe, American Literature 1850 – 1900).
During its stint in Egypt, he was Agapios (A scroll so charred that it became unreadable, Library Archives).
Though the Library’s current working name is unknown, it is reasonable to believe that it can be found somewhere in the Philippines. The Librarian is a male. His current name begins with Alberto (Twisted 2, Jessica Zafra, Philippine Collection). He would look like your average Juan.
—
Books were the main attraction in every library, and in the Library they were very special. While other libraries jacketed their collection in royal blue or brick red, all the books in the Library had covers made of leather in varying shades of brown, almost like a skin tone. With such a great number of books, visitors often wondered how the Librarian found the time and funds to wrap all of them.
The Library’s collection was constantly growing. No one could boast to have one as enormous or as diverse. Books came in several languages, some no longer in use. In hidden rooms were papyrus scrolls and tablets of hardened clay. The Librarian accepted everything from bestsellers to banned books. There was even a fair amount of speculative fiction.
Of course, there were stories the books were just dying to tell: those of husbands, wives, lovers and exes; memoirs of children, and childhood lived and lost; tales of tragedy and deceit; accounts of how their bodies transformed into books, of how the Librarian assumed their looks.
The most common tale was of how the Librarian stole their lives, tricked them into signing the contract.
But the books were merely books, without mouths to scream, without eyes to look on with terror. They had to be content with the stories the Librarian considered worthy of showcasing.
—
The Library attracted all sorts of characters. From teenagers to tramps, washed-up writers to housewives, they came to gaze with envy at the books. And there were some patrons who wanted to own the Library themselves, who saw the aging Librarian as a sign that the Library needed new life.
The Librarian, kindly and old and picky, would ask them if they were interested to be its new face.
April 18th, 2014 at 12:42
Wait, the actual title is “It Lives In Books”. :-P
April 18th, 2014 at 18:34
Schauden Something
I don’t hate all kids, just the spoiled rotten, not really cute ones.
So you will imagine my contempt, alright, disapproval when Agnes asked me to babysit her one and only Princess. Oh fuck. Let me tell you that the only royal thing about my nine year old niece is her, well, her stupid name. Really, Agnes? I had a cat once, and his name was Prince, and he lived up to his name with the poise and bearing that was characteristic of the regal Siamese. His posture will put most people to shame, and he conducts himself in the most admirable fashion. He sits up straight with attention, he lies down, paws in the air, like he’s waiting for me to feed him grapes, and he eyes everyone with both curiosity and condescension.
He licks his hairy nuts a lot, but remember he’s a cat, and he wouldn’t know any different.
Meanwhile, if my niece were a cat, she’d be some noisy garbage stray with an iPad, an iPhone, a Twitter account and, get this, two different Facebook profiles. What conceited business do you have with two Facebook profiles?
Agnes was sent to some day-long training or so somewhere, and she thought it best that I spend some time with my niece. I don’t see her a lot, Agnes said, and what better way for me to know her more than to have fun with niece somewhere. Just the two of us. Shit, my idea of fun is thinking about my ex-partners while cleaning my Glock handgun. But you didn’t know that, Agnes, didn’t you since you started caring less about nine years ago. Meanwhile, I tried to argue my way out of this really annoying waste of time, but Agnes wouldn’t hear any of it. She said that my being friends with Princess of Facebook does not count. She added that Princess’ status updates, and selfies, and her Daily Horoscope barely scratch the tip of the iceberg that is Princess’ amazing personality.
My sister’s analogies are the worst, I know. This parallels her choice of kid names, but I continue to love her regardless.
I fetched her spoiled royal highness at around nine in the morning. Agnes’ things were already in the car, Yaya Carmen was watering the bougainvilleas with this distinct smile on her face. The well-trimmed lawn was spectacular when the sun shined on its edges. The smell of frying bacon was scrumptious in the air, and Princess will be ruining this beautiful morning for me soon enough. And she did when I saw her at the breakfast table. “OMG Titooo, I miss you ha! How come you’re not commenting on my posts ha Titooo? Oh wait, this bacon’s not likeable enough.”
“Soo, where are you taking my little Princess?” Agnes’ attention was divided between myself and her News Feed, but I really could have used a “Hey, good morning! Thanks for taking her on such short notice, you are awesoemzzz!”
“I was planning on culturing your Princess, Agnes. I will be taking her to the library today.” Or a big-enough Petri dish that cultures bacteria.
“Ah, that’s, ah, lovely. And then?” Agnes looked up from her iPad at the mention of “library.”
“And then I’ll take her home.” My enthusiasm was overflowing.
“That’s it?”
“We’ll have hours of fun, Agnes, stop worrying. We’ll make it wonderful, you’ll see. She won’t forget it. I’ll make sure That happens.” I helped myself to some lopsided bacon that had 23 likes according to Princess’ latest report.
“Oh alright, whatever. Princess, baby, your Tito will be taking you somewhere nice today. You have fun, alright, and call me if anything happens.” I love you too, Agnes, you know that. And you are welcome, by the way.
“OMG Titooo! Promise you’ll make it fun ha? Wait, let me post this! My friends will freak omg haha!”
Freak? I hate her choice of words. I hate how she says things. “Teee-tooo!” “Ow-em-gee!” “Freeek!” Ugh. She’s nine years old, and she talks with the
intonation of a beauty school drop out. I am particularly annoyed by the way she smiles when Likes poured in on her recent status update. How come no one’s commenting on your dirty white teeth, Princess? “Omg guess where my Tito’s taking me!” This post included the customary selfie. Ugh. Anyway, Princess wouldn’t be flashing that selfie smile if she knew where we were going. That, at least, was encouraging.
The forty-something Likes on this piece of bacon I’m chewing does nothing to it, really.
What her Facebook-frenzied little highness doesn’t know is that Pasig Cirehhh’s Municipal Library does not have WiFi. What’s even better is that it doesn’t have any network coverage. But it does have one rotary phone. And this is the only reason why I’m taking her there. Culture my ass. There she was, all decked up and looking awful stupid in her pastel blue Queen Elsa gown, really, Agnes?, and she had this white hair pin that’s shaped like a crown, of course. There were two shoulder-length pigtails on both sides of her head. She had this pink Dora backpack on, and her gown, seriously Agnes?, terminated in this pair of white Hello Kitty heels.
We are going to the library, and she’s looking like refuse royalty. Who the fuck styles this little shit?
Her ears were plugged with this pair of white earphones that reached in Dora’s face. Ten years ago, girls her age were inseparable from their teddy bears. Princess hugs her tablet with a childish lust for social networking and its implements. “The cold never bothered me anyway, omg.” Her singing reminds one of a kitten frying in boiling oil, and she has no idea how she’s murdering that song. It embarrasses me to say this, but I really hate this kid. That goes well without saying, but I did, and that embarrasses me.
She looked happy. Ugh. I’m seeing pigs in shit, that kind of happy, and I’ll see to that by and by. We were there at around ten in the morning.
“OMG Titooo, where are we and why is it so quiet here ha? Library what? Is that a zodiac sign ha Titooo? Did someone die, Titooo? Was it your friend ha Titooo? I don’t like your friend, Tito, kahit na he gives me gifts on Christmas kasi his tattoos scare me. Where are the people ba Tito OMG this place sucks!”
“Do they have WiFi here Titooo? Are they… what’s the WiFi password ba Titooo? Books? Really, Titooo, you’re kidding diba? Dibaaa? These things are nowhere near as fun as my iPad kaya Titooo. Wait, I want to take a selfie next to this stupid cabinet OMG Titooo this cabinet has cards! This sucks ha, I want to post a status update na Titooo What’s the WiFi password baaa?”
An impressive SSSHHHHHH! arrested Princess’ whining. It was sharp, it was abrupt, it was trumpets. SSSHHHHHH! SSSHHHHHH! SSSHHHHHH! it went in three succeeding intervals, and it shut Princess up. Bravo. It came from this old lady behind this tall wooden desk. She could be in her 70s now, but with the right light, she could be 68. There was a tall stack of books to her left, her forefinger was suspended before her pursed lips. A pair of thick spectacles with thicker frames, black, balanced before this, this nose that was so crooked it’s criminal. And behind those glasses were sharper eyes that regarded Princess with the severity that only a dedicated librarian can deliver.
Her big gray hair was coiffed up like she was married to the mayor. And before her crouched authority was a gilded desk nameplate that said “Ms Shushy. Head Librarian.”
I have no idea that two hours have elapsed since we were here. We have covered the Children’s Literature, no luck with that, and the General Non Fiction department. I noticed that I am now hearing less of Princess’ queries about the WiFi password, and I felt disappointed. Maybe she likes it here, after all. Oh man, really? I could feel her shuffling behind me, always a few steps behind me. She is walking rather slowly now, the tap tapping of those little heels are growing less in their frequency. Maybe she’s up to her own browsing. Maybe she is more than looking at the books and is actually reading something. What if she opens a book or two and acquaints herself with the released smell of bound paper? And loves that as well? Fuck it.
It is half past noon now, and her marked silence is now the only thing there is. I have grown rather tired of walking, and I have resolved to giving her two more hours of no WiFi. I suspect she’ll let me have it by and by. I am really looking forward to her throwing a tantrum, so we went up to the top floor where the paralyzing silence of the Archives is waiting for us. I hate the Archives myself for there is nothing there, but you know how it goes when push comes to shove.
We just arrived in the Archives when I felt knives burying in my cheeks. I slowed down, and I looked at Princess. Oh that face was priceless. Hers was fixed in this frozen dislike, her eyes were unblinking as she asked me one more time, “What’s… the… Wi… Fi… pass… word?” That slow, syllabicated drawl told me that she has finally shed her “arte” and is now, well, dangerous. This is it.
“I’m sorry, baby, but I really don’t know. Hey, look here, old paper!”
She looked straight at me, her forehead was glistening with perspiration, and there was an unmistakable shade of threat in those unmoving eyes. And she let it rip. “WHAT’S THE PASSWOOOOORRDDDD!!!” She screamed in four escalating octaves, each pitch more menacing than the last. Her eyes were mad with loathing, her pigtails were stationary, which was queer since her body was shaking with this unfamiliar tremor. It was thunder and trumpets, but it was beautiful music to my ears. “WHAT IS IIIITTTT???” Her shoulders tensed as her embrace tightened on that infernal tablet, her dirty white teeth were bared in this unprecedented show of rage.
“WHATISITWHATISITWHATISIIIIITTTT???”
Oh, so That’s what you are like, little Princess. How would you like a selfie now?
She screamed so loud I felt those… transparent grayish soundwaves and the awful impact they had on my long leggedness. Is this a concussion I’m feeling if I wasn’t exaggerating? This howling went on for a year and several months, lovely times I tell you, until the hollow sounds of ascending heeled shoes broke Princess’ fit. Ms Shushy’s hooked face appeared in the doorway of the archives, her forefinger raised in that familiar posture before her lips. I noticed that she was smaller without her throne, she could be two feet tops, but her severe presence made her taller in consequence. Bravo, Ms Shushy.
She approached us with the hurried stride of someone with authority. But I got to her first and I said, “You tell her you have no WiFi here.”
“OMG I HAAAATE YOU TITO! I HATE YOU SOOO MUCH TITO! YOU SUCK TITO! YOU WAIT UNTIL MOM HEARS ABOUT THIS! I’LL MAKE YOU SUMBONG SO BAD! YOU SUCK!”
“SSHHHHHHHHH! SSHHHHHHHHH! SSHHHHHHHHH!” That shut her up. I am growing rather fond of this old lady.
“I’m sorry Princess, but I don’t think they have signal here either. You’ll have to wait until later. Anyway, all that walking… do you mind if we stay a little longer? I can use ten minutes, tops.”
Haha, I can tell there is more to Princess’ outburst, but that was crippled by Ms Shushy’s presence. Oh, Agnes, if you could only see your little darling now. Teary eyed helplessness fits her. She never looked that spectacular. Hahahaha!
I now have this sudden itch to go back to the Languages section. I know the Germans have a word for this kind of wicked happiness.
April 18th, 2014 at 18:47
1. I meant to scatter “Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts” here and there, but this piece is approaching 2000 words already. My word count embarrasses me, but I thoroughly enjoyed writing this.
2. I have a seven-year old niece, and she is the most well behaved daisy there is. I love you baby. She is not Princess. I needed to say that. My sister Gemma could be reading this.
3. I am not usually this wordy, but I resolved to practice what I learned in your wonderful workshop. Thank you, Madame!
April 19th, 2014 at 15:43
The Bare House
The heart and mind of a little girl of ten were debating whether or not she should throw the book hidden in her coat pocket to the huge pile before her and many other Germans. It was a day in 1933 that called all Germans to the streets to honor the Fuehrer. The celebration, as the Fuehrer himself may wish to call it, required all books to be burned in a ritual that began with a speech of forceful staccatos.
There was a flighty feeling in the speech despite its force and loudness. Force wrapped in fear, the girl thought. She decided to keep the book.
At bedtime, the girl took out the book from her pocket and placed it on the bedside table. When Worlds Collide by Philip Wylie and Edwin Balmer, the book’s cover said. She had read the book from cover to cover and learned a few difficult words. That night, she decided to scribble among the pages.
” It is catastrophic, the way words are lost to the flames, one by one… ”
Jesriel woke up from an incomprehensible dream. It is the morning of 2013. He could not exactly recall what was in the dream, only discrete pieces without any meaning to him whatsoever: a lamp, a window, and a weird feeling of sadness and fear that had nothing to do with those two things.
He caught the feelings as if they were inflictions of some sort. Good vibes, he thought wryly, a perfect mood to start the day he knew would be a bad one. Last night, his grandfather paid him a visit for the first time in years and promised to bring Jesriel to one of his houses. But it wasn’t the visit to the old house that brought him qualms. Jesriel had been feeling down for several days starting with when he failed in school. He felt that no matter what he does, he’s always caught in booby traps along his way, as if he could not run away from himself.
The house they went to is, as expected, old and dingy, but, Jesriel had to admit, quite tasteful. Hard wood carvings on the terrace’s balusters were of lions, horses, and mythical creatures. Inside, a wide flag of stairs welcomed visitors to the second floor. The house was sadly deserted. Its rooms are bare and vacant save for the library.
“You will like it here, I know,” Lolo said. Jesriel sniffed and said, “But it’s a bare house.” “
“Come, I’ll show you the library,” said Lolo with a wink.
The library looked scary. It wasn’t the place, the smell, nor the lighting. For Jesriel, the books looked scary as if they were giants that looked menacingly to those below them. The shelves felt like teachers giving him the quiz of his life.
“You know I hated studying, that’s why I flunked in school” Jesriel complained.
“Who says we’re studying?” said Lolo and strutted around the library to introduce the books to Jesriel: novels, encyclopedias, the atlas, and old used books obtained from overseas donations and garage sales.
Jesriel was asked to try one out and he picked from those used books. They looked like those shabby torn maps used by pirates in movies, thought Jesriel.
He read the synopsis on the back cover. It’s a science fiction about two planets, Bronson Beta and Bronson Alpha, predicted to collide with Earth, and a love shared by a woman scientist named Eva and a man called Tony.
The story moved Jesriel a little bit. His mind tried to fetch a picture of disaster but it is too faraway from him. When had he heard of real-life disasters, he thought. Two days ago, he heard her mom talk about a storm surge that struck Visayas when he was about to go out and play. Jesriel couldn’t make much of that conversation, though. He didn’t care about it, after all. But there was something about the novel that affected Jesriel for the first time—might be the affection of two persons at the time of impending catastrophe.
Catastrophe.
Its letters flashed and echoed in Jesriel’s mind. He suddenly felt sad and fearful. It was something he seemed to have felt before. When did he feel it? Why did he seem to understand those feelings? He recalled a time when his friend accidentally ruined his favorite remote-controlled toy helicopter. He felt terribly angry at his friend as if he could split his limbs in an instant. But fear and grief: they’re foreign to him.
He ran his fingers through the pages and smelled it. He and his eyelids felt heavy. Or was it just because the room grew dim? His sight blurred a bit after he rubbed his eyes. He could make out something dripping among the shelves. His ears confirmed what the sight cannot. The books! They’re wet! No, they are not wet. The shelves and the books themselves melted like ice to water, from solid to liquid, only faster. There are no traces of paper or wood. There’s just water.
Jesriel stood up but did not know what to do: he can only watch those books dissolve before him. He looked down at “When Worlds Collide” and it melted too. Panic ran through his spine as water began to rise above his chest.
He was below the air and within the water. He tried to swim steadily as he watched letters, words, sentences, paragraphs, facts, ideas, imaginations reduced to cold incomprehensible water. There was nothingness around him but darkness and fear.
Then there was light in the water. Jesriel approached it and he was admitted to a surreal transformation. It was as if water swirled and swirled and became mud that grew into buildings, houses, people. Jesriel found himself standing on solid ground at the center of these transformations. His clothes were dry as if he never had been wet. He looked and walked around the newly-built old place. Happiness tugged at his heart at the sight of people warm with smiles and whispers. A girl by her bedroom window with a lit lamp caught Jesriel’s eye. She was scribbling on to something, like a diary, so determinedly as if she was inscribing something very important. Jesriel went near the window to look more closely until he could read out the letters on the familiar cover. A thump in his heart prompted Jesriel to suddenly recognize the place; he had been here. He went closer to the girl to read what she had been writing. He could make out the words “catastrophic” and “flames”, and a signature: Laura Becker.
A bomb exploded and everything caught fire very quickly. Jesriel hurriedly yanked the window open in an attempt to get the book and read the girl’s letter. But the fire has eaten up the lamp, the book, the girl, the window, gracefully and brutally, and Jesriel was pulled backwards. Smoke suffocated him. He drew breath deeply and quickly, and forcibly opened his eyes to a well-lit unperturbed library.
Jesriel looked around and saw that nothing has changed of the library. No water or fire has disturbed it. Air came in from the window that fluttered the pages of “When Worlds Collide” sitting a few inches away from him. He immediately took the book with trembling hands. The letter he was looking for was written mid-book:
“…Oh, did the hungry man on the street know what he had been eating? He looked so satisfied, though. So should I ask whether the fire or its builder knew what he had fed to the monster? Civilizations, institutions, imaginations, dreams… The fire should be satisfied.
May another world know what had fallen and lost on this day in 1933.
Laura Becker, 10, Germany”
Jesriel felt something huge placated him. He undeniably knew what had fallen and lost that day: buildings, houses, people, smiles, imaginations, dreams, paragraphs, sentences, words, letters reduced instantly to ashes. And others just watched them combust without so much as knowing what two or more words in their heart, or lest in their minds, could contain.
Jesriel looked at the library and how it once melted and pushed him in a swirling fashion to the olden days where its societies produced the truths the library now contains. A light bulb invented hundreds of years ago has made an electrician what he is today. When a great flood swept a city two days ago, a child grows up without a parent and may become a threat or a gift to a new society. And Jesriel could not just pass by history as it is made. He should participate in it.
Lolo came in the library and said something like he met with a potential buyer of the house a while ago.
“Well, after all, it’s a bare house,” said Lolo.
“No, Lolo. It iisn’t.”
April 19th, 2014 at 21:19
Infinite Impossibilities
I.
It was almost like a game of hide-and-seek, though she was never quite sure whether she was hiding or seeking. The rows of tall shelves were her labyrinth. They were lined up on each side of the wide room, at right angles to the wall but not touching it. Thin strips of sunlight peeked into the gaps between the thick curtains, illuminating the darkened, narrow alleys between the wall and the shelves that couldn’t be reached by the fluorescent lights.
Along these alleys, Emily walked. She strolled from shelf to shelf with her hands clasped behind her, shoulders thrown back, shoes clicking with every step, and chin tilted thoughtfully. She was an English gentleman taking a turn around the room.
The spaces between each shelf were like long dark tunnels; and down their end she caught glimpses of scenes unfolding on every table in the brightly lit hall.
It was like how old film reels worked: a different image in every panel put together to form the illusion of continuity.
Shelf PN1010-PN6120. Click. Click. A boy and a girl sat across each other, an entire table all to themselves. A couple’s rendezvous in the library.
Shelf PN6130-PR1098. Click. Click. A few steps revealed a new frame with the same view…
except the couple was no longer a couple. They are two complete strangers who happen to have chosen the same table and sat there avoiding each other’s eye. Look at how they very awkwardly but obstinately face the other way; the girl bent over a thick textbook, the boy aimlessly fiddling with his smart-phone.
Click, click, click. The view disappeared momentarily behind the shelf and emerged once more as she advanced, revealing a previously unseen table beyond that of the un-couple’s. Three boys occupied this table; cocky sophomores by the look of them, the way they drape themselves against the back of the mono-bloc chairs. They had moved the chairs so that they could sit side-by-side and squint at the screen of the laptop before them.
Click, click, click. The un-couple’s table was hidden now; but behind the sophomore boys, another table held a solitary occupant. He had a vaguely familiar face. She thought perhaps he was a former teacher or a current classmate; at any rate, someone she saw everyday whose existence doesn’t really register in her brain. He sat with his elbows propped up on the table, chin resting on both hands, staring into space. She started when she saw his gaze wandering towards her, so she hurried further on, ducking behind Shelf PR1490-PS409.
Hiding.
This time she was definitely hiding.
They were relentlessly dogging her every move. There was the vicious degree in Engineering she needed to attain; the cold-blooded F’s that were recently branded on her major subjects.
There was the cruel silence of her days, the tiresomeness of listening to a constant din of voices and never hearing anything.
There was the voice inside her own head, fretful and foreboding, complaining that I’m tired, I’m tired, I’m so FUCKING
Oh, they were monsters, alright. They were villains, and she would hide from them here, behind shelf PR1490-PS409. She was a detective in an abandoned house, being hunted by a serial killer, and back-up was taking forever to arrive.
She was very good at hiding, though.
In another time, in another library, she had hidden herself so well that it took them ages to find her. Tears were shed for her that day, in that long-forgotten time when people still go looking for her when she’s nowhere to be found.
It wasn’t something she had meant to do.
II.
The Children’s Literature Section of Saint Michael Academy’s library was merely a small rectangular nook at one end of a long large room which, in its entirety, took up a whole floor in Building A. Three low shelves and a magazine rack stood surrounding a small area of linoleum-covered floor. The books on the shelves were in its usual state of disarray. It was possible that there weren’t as many titles in those shelves as she used to think, but she could still remember the tingling excitement her 8-year-old self had felt upon discovering that treasure trove. She remembered thinking that that small nook would keep her entertained forever.
There were no chairs in that part of the library; those who wanted to venture into the Children’s Section had to take off their shoes, walk in their socks, and sit on the floor…or sprawl out on their back as she was wont to do.
She supposed that was how it started – with her sprawled on the cool linoleum. Classes were dismissed earlier than usual that day. There were very few people in the library and she had her favorite space all to herself.
She was determined that she was going to finish Jules Verne. She had read more than half-way through the on her last visit and she was hoping she wouldn’t have to take it home with her. The sky outside the jalousie windows that sunny afternoon was the kind that drew one’s eyes away from the page and into that clear, hypnotic, blue vastness, catching glimpses of infinite impossibilities.
It was blue under the sea as well, she had decided; a different kind of blue, dark and cool and secretive…or perhaps it wasn’t blue at all, but a sinister green which will grow darker as you go deeper…down, down, into the depths…until the water was nothing but inky, suffocating blackness
She opened her eyes. There was a tall figure standing above her head.
Hello, he said. His smiling face loomed above hers and she scrambled to sit up. She was groggy from sleep and the sudden appearance of the stranger bewildered her. Too late, she remembered they weren’t allowed to sleep in the library, as the snooty student assistant had often reminded her.
You were sleeping, said the tall man.
Sorry sir, she answered at once. She looked up at him and saw that he was still smiling. That was good; it could mean she wasn’t in too much trouble. She smiled back.
–What’s your name?
–Emily, sir.
–Mmhmm…so I thought. I see you come in here everyday, isn’t that right, Emily?
–Yes, sir.
She did, indeed, and she was embarrassed because she didn’t know him at all. He looked vaguely familiar. She racked her brains trying to remember where she’d seen him before. He had a pleasant face, though his features were ordinary; forgettable, even. It was curious how they slid right off of her memory every time she looked away from him.
–What are you reading, then, Emily?
She showed him the cover of her book.
–Ah…it’s Captain Nemo today, is it? And have you finished it?
She shook her head.
He regarded her with a little tilt of his head. He was really tall. Years later when she tried picturing him in her mind, she found that those were the only things that stayed with her: his towering height and the pleasantness of his face, though the exact image of the face itself evaded her.
–Hmm…You see, I have a favor to ask. Is it okay if I part you from your book for a little while?
–It’s okay, sir.
–Come, then.
He held out his hand and she took it, pulling herself up. The fast-disappearing glow of the setting sun flooded the windows, drenching the whole room in red-orange light. It’s late afternoon, she remarked in surprise.
–So it is.
–They’re going to close the library soon, I bet.
–We had better hurry then, hadn’t we?
He led her towards the High School Wing, a place she seldom visited for its high tables and important-looking books intimidated her and the older students can be cruel with their jokes. Somehow, she wasn’t surprised to see that the place was completely deserted.
There was a wooden door at the farthest end of the wing. She had always assumed it was the librarian’s office.
–Are you our new librarian, sir?
–I’m an OLD librarian, actually. I don’t know how I even manage; I’m never the most organized person in the world.
Keys rattled from a key ring. Emily caught sight of a glint of silver. She was expecting to see rusted old-fashioned keys like those you would expect to see in old houses, but his key ring only held ordinary, new ones. Some even had YALE engraved on the head. The Old Librarian inserted one in the doorknob and pushed the door open.
Now Emily, he said before entering, I have to tell you that you aren’t allowed to touch anything in here. His voice had a quiet, pervading ring, she noticed just then. He was in front of her, yet it was as if he was talking right behind her head.
–These ones aren’t yours to read, little Emily. Do you understand?
–Yes, sir.
–Remember, you are not to touch anything.
–Uhuh.
–And, Emily?
–Yes, sir?
–Be careful you don’t topple them.
There were literally mountains of them. Books piled on books piled on books forming towering stacks that rose from floor to the ceiling that was strangely higher than that of the hall outside. Leather-bounds and hard-bounds and soft-bounds and some paperbacks, here and there. Thin, tottering columns that could barely keep themselves upright. Mounds and heaps and pyramids, all higher than the last. The room and the books seemed to stretch infinitely on.
The man walked along a winding path around them and though she tried to keep up, she was soon left behind. She could no longer see the door from where they entered. Everywhere she turned, she saw nothing but books. She knew that her little Children’s Section would never be enough for her from then on. She tried reading the titles on the spines and found that none had any – only names. Most of them she didn’t know, and quite a lot of them she would never again see, but there were a few she did recognize; E.A. Poe, L. Carroll, R. L. Stevenson, J. Verne…Spotting them in there felt like seeing a friend waving at you.
She didn’t dare pick one up.
The man disappeared behind a pillar of thick, gilt edged volumes, leaving her standing surrounded by piles twice as high as she was, trying to stay as still as possible lest she upset a stack and start an avalanche.
Are all of them yours, she called out, not sure whether he could even hear her from wherever he was.
No, he replied. She gave a little jump and twisted around, but there was no one behind her except more books.
–No, they belong to their owners. I’m a librarian. I’m only their caretaker.
–What are they? I mean, what kind of books are they?
–Lonely ones.
–Lonely ones?
–Yes. Most of them will never be read by anyone but me. Those are the loneliest kind of books, don’t you think, the ones that aren’t read?
–You should share them, then. You should give them to people so they could read them.
–Some of them I do share, yes.
–You should put them on the shelves outside.
–Yes, yes, that’s why I brought you here.
He emerged from a small gap to her left carrying half a dozen, black, hard-bound volumes. Look, he said, these are yours.
–They’re for ME?
–They’re yours, but not for reading. Remember I told you none of these are yours to read; at least not yet.
–Oh.
–So here’s what I want you to do for me…I want you to put each and every one of these on the shelves outside this room.
It was more than a little anti-climactic. She wasn’t sure what she expected, but she definitely thought it was something more exciting than hefting around a bunch of heavy books. Is that all, she asked.
–That’s all. Can you do that for me?
–Sure, I could. But couldn’t you just do it yourself?
His smile widened. His smile never did left his face.
–As these are yours, it’ll be your job to take them to the shelves. Can you do that?
–Yeah. Are they the only ones?
–They were the ones I found. A few more might turn up somewhere. Look, you won’t have to take them now. I’ll give you a key.
He placed the books on top of a shorter stack of soft-bounds and fished for his key ring in his pocket. He took her hand and pressed the key into her palm.
–Here. That way you can come back anytime you want. They’ll be waiting for you right here, on top of this pile. Be sure you don’t forget where to look for them.
–But I don’t know which shelves to put them in.
–You can put them in any shelf you want. It’s up to you, as they’re your books.
–If they’re mine, why can’t I read them?
At that, the man laughed and knelt down in front of her, his hands pressing heavily down on her shoulders.
–You don’t need to read them, Emily.
–Why not?
She was trying to memorize his face; focusing on the curve of his nose, the space between his eyebrows; hoping her mind might re-create his image once her eyes had closed; but it was no use. Already, he seemed to be fading away.
–You already know what’s in them.
–What’s that, then?
She looked into his eyes and found herself falling into the bottomless pits that were his pupils. What’s in them, she called out, even as she was swallowed by inky blackness. She plunged headlong into the void. What’s in them?
Far ahead, two pinpricks of light appeared, twinkling like stars.
–Dreams.
III.
Dreams.
She supposed, if she was Seeking, that would be what she was looking for.
Half-remembered dreams, a stack of lonely books, and a key.
The key had been inside the pocket of her skirt on the morning they had found her, curled up on the floor in the Children’s Section. Of that she was certain. She had slipped her hand inside, rummaging for it under the rustling candy wrappers and her fingertips had grazed the cold touch of metal.
She wouldn’t leave. Her mother pulled at her arm and hissed at her, saying she had caused enough trouble and worry already, but she wouldn’t let them take her home. She left something, she told them, in the room at the end of the High School Wing. She wouldn’t believe them when they told her there was nothing there but a broom closet until she had seen for herself when they opened it and saw a cramped space filled with mops and boxes of floor wax.
As for the key…well… she was eight, and she was forever putting all sorts of rubbish in her pockets, and when next she looked it simply wasn’t there anymore.
There was no Children’s Section in the University Library, and all the doors were the sliding, glass kind. It had air-conditioning and comfy couches here and there, but the thick curtains blocked any view of the skies outside. The books in the tall shelves were always in order, so you wouldn’t have trouble looking for anything, unless what you were looking for is a bunch of lonely books no one has ever read before.
She didn’t even know what their titles were.
She still came everyday, though, if only to hide behind the shelves and look for books she could borrow. She didn’t read inside the library now; she took the books home with her.
Presently, she took one from a rack – something by Dickens – and flipped open the back flap. The last time it was borrowed was almost a year ago. You’re still lucky, she said to it. Some books are lonelier than you are. She clutched it under her arms and craned her head, looking for more unnoticed books on the upper racks. All of a sudden, the room went dark.
Miss, said someone, standing at the far end of the shelves, miss, I think they’re about to close.
It was the solitary occupant of the third table; the vaguely familiar face that could be a former professor or a current classmate.
–I don’t think they’d let you take out those books anymore. You could come back tomorrow.
In the dark, she was almost sure that he was smiling. I lost it, she said to him, I lost the key. I’ve been looking for it.
–What, you lost your key? You lost it here, you mean?
–No, not here…I…I don’t know exactly where I lost it…
–Well, if you didn’t lose it here then you should probably get going or they’ll lock you in when they close the doors.
To her utter dismay, he turned away and started walking to the exit. Wait, she called after him desperately, wait, you have to help me find it! The tall man did not look back. Help me, she insisted. Please?
–Why should I? They’re not MY keys. They’re your problem, miss.
–But how do I find them?
–You want my advice? They say the best way to find what you’re looking for is to start where you last saw them.
The lone security guard manning the glass doors opened it for him and he walked out into the night. The guard was holding the door open, looking expectantly at her. She hurried outside, intent on following the man, but the steps outside the building were deserted.
It was a clear night. The skies overhead were twinkling with stars.
She slipped her hand into the pocket of her skirt.
Her fumbling fingers found the touch of cold metal, closing into a fist around the ballpoint pen inside.
April 19th, 2014 at 21:31
Oh gods apologies for the length :/
I was suppose to cut it up into three comments…
April 20th, 2014 at 03:57
Of Tricks and of Delusions
I reeked of his elixir. Shit. At least my vigil has ceased. The potentially perpetual grim looming over the spectacle I have for a visage is now all but perpetual. A rare smile found its way on my lips. The archangel Metatron is still. Days of watching him in agony, spasms, writhing, and jerking until the fucker finally gave up exhausted me. I find myself wobbling towards the nearest stack of books. I picked up the one on top, the freshest correspondence from the world of the living, and re-scanned the final notes. I did everything perfect up to this point.
The poor angel is mere collateral damage. As I would to anybody who has had the misfortune of making my acquaintance, I crucified Metatron upside down and slit his throat. Simple, routine, rehearsed. The rood that held him is suspended from the ceiling as I let the curious golden liquid spurt out of his neck onto a cistern on the floor. This is by no means a run-of-the-mill extraction for I do not want his blood and stories; I wanted something far greater, and it has yet to materialize.
I crawled up to the vessel and studied Metatron’s blood, his elixir, waiting and in the process I caught my reflection. A white demon, hairless, seven red eyes, with a pair of scrotum hanging from his forehead, pus seeping out from every cavity on his face, and a forked tongue instantaneously licking the thick fetid substance. A sight I was, a by-product of my father’s sacrilege. My very existence is an insult to God. I am both slave and spawn to Uvall, a fallen angel who fought on the side of Lucifer. Some centuries ago, my cunt of a father breathed life unto me to flaunt to the Almighty that he too is capable of creating life. A skill only he and his banished comrades are privy to. But instead of affording their creations love, eternal punishment and damnation is all they would extend.
“Pus-sy. You imbecile. Come to me this instant!” Uvall called to me. Normally, I’d tremble at the very sound of his voice. Fuck him. I have drudged at this wretched library since I can remember. My father had Pandemonium Archive erected before I was born, a hideous edifice on the summit of hell where tomes upon tomes of accounts of crimes committed by the most degenerate and perverse of men are found in its shelves. The Archive is the first pit stop when the dead lands on hell and we, the labourers are the welcoming committee. We provide the dead new flesh and then submit them to torment of unfathomable macabre. Here, the authors are the dead, their peeled skins are the leaves on their books, their blood their ink, and their stories their transgressions.
An orb coagulated in the archangel’s elixir. This must be it. I reached to scoop it up. Warm. The light it emitted made me aware of my surroundings. A multitude of skinned bodies nailed on crosses with their blood dripping onto cisterns, some still alive moaning, hung on the ceiling alongside Metatron. By the window are piles of books I collected from the latest batch of sinners, still to be sorted into their proper categories. On the far end, by the walls, are enclosed shelves five times taller than me, stuffed with the Archive’s most precious collections. The orb’s light started to grow stronger. I should hurry. I swallowed it and the angel’s blood singed the insides of my mouth. The voice of God is now in me, at last.
At first I thought it was random. A reprobate who raped toddlers and committed self-immolation brought the first message from the world of the living. The message promises of their love and loyalty to Satan and their intention to liberate him. These delirious cocksuckers are so bored with their lives they think Lucifer will spice it up for them. And then came more miscreants, each more flagrant than the former, all died of ritualistic suicide, and along with them, more letters, instructions, and slowly I began to realize that these heretics may actually have a legit plan. All is laid out in my orchestrator’s timetable; as their implement, all I had to do is seize and harness the voice of God from that self-righteous prick Metatron. The last bearer of message, the whore Eve, whoever she is, lured Metatron to hell, to me, and to his demise. The only thing left to do now is to test if the voice of God really works.
“What is that smell? Pus-sy, are you in here?” Uvall was by the door. He stepped back as his eyes darted from me to Metatron’s carcass.
“Dear father, is there anything wrong?”
“What is Metatron doing here?” For the first time, I saw my father uneasy and unsure, transfixed at the sight. “Lucif—“
“Oh shut up.”’
His ugly mug, in disbelief at my insolence, started to contort in wrath. His large wings are now in full display, his eyes burning. “You dare—“
He doesn’t scare me anymore. “Go fuck yourself.” My words, my thoughts were made true. I heard his bones crack as his body distorted, he’s now bent backwards so that his head faces his crotch. His eyes were in utter terror. His body convulsed and his wings flapped wildly as he started to impale his own face. My proud father reduced to a sad circus show. Well at least I know the orb is working.
The next words that came from my mouth saw to the destruction of the Archive. The once giant library is now demoted to a heap of rubble. Being God sure does have its perks.
I now possess the ultimate power; therefore it’s only apt that I look the part. In an instant, I grew majestic wings; I clad myself in gold armour, as what Metatron would wear; and I armed myself with a sabre, same as what the archangel Michael wields. Not that I will ever find use for it. My weapon of choice is my voice.
“I will the death of all mankind. All will die in their own hands.” The sky rumbled as if in protest. Well, I am not taking it back. The whole human race should be bursting into hell any minute now.
“Let all demons be free, let the gates of hell be open for eternity!” And just like that, the gates shattered into pieces. Demons started to gather at the gates, wondering and still scared to step out.
Shall I do everything myself? Do I need to spoon feed each one of them? I flew past the gate to show them that it is indeed safe.
“DEMOONNNNN!” I heard a bellow from the sky. In a split second, I find myself enveloped in blinding light. All I can make out are tall dark figures surrounding me. My sword and armour melted at the presence of the light. I attempted to retaliate but one of them grabbed my head from behind and buried the entirety of my face in his burning palms, rendering my mouth useless. A strange force restrained me, coiled around me, almost to the point of crushing me. It was a sting at first, and then an indescribable pain. A fist pierced through my chest, and the hands holding my head hostage broke free and struck my face with claws scraping all my eyes out. Another claw ripped out my throat. At some point, I stopped fighting. And then, I felt nothing.
April 20th, 2014 at 12:42
We’re accepting entries until 11:59 pm today.
First impressions: Titles. Most of them are fine. We like It Lives In Books, which sounds like a Stephen King-John Carpenter thing, and Schauden Something, which is of the Inglourious Basterds school.
Infinite Impossibilities: Trying to sound profound, when what it means is Absolutely Nothing.
Of Tricks and Delusions: Why not just call it I Couldn’t Think Of Anything Badass So I Came Up With Something Lame?
Do not reply, it does not amuse us.