You sit in the library, fearing the worst, but hoping for the best. Even though just started this job, your boss has decided that you must work nights. The only thing she said before she smiled and left? "Beware the literature...it has claimed many young lives."
You merely laughed as she laughed, agreeing to "beware," whatever that means. Beware the literature. They're just books. Dusty old books...and shiny new books.
You walk between rows of bookshelves, running your fingertips along the spines. Ahh, yes, this is indeed the job for you. Old book smell mingles with new book smell, creating...heaven. You can't help but hope that God has an entire section of heaven dedicated completely to books.
One book doesn't have writing on the spine, so you pull it partially out. Yuck, Shakespeare. Sure, he was famous, but he could also be quite the perv. Of course, the Twilight series is definitely worse. You can't find a single book you'd like to read that you haven't already devoured like the bookworm you are, so you sigh, give up, and make yourself a cup of coffee. Ahh, the lovely aroma. And the bite to your coffee--hot and black...just the way you like it.
After downing your coffee, your eyes are awakened. You must find a book. It's no longer a matter of wanting...you need to. So, it's back to the shelves with you!
Book after book calls you, then as you read their backs, you ignore their calls...until.... There's one book, sitting alone on a table. Usually only dictionaries are kept on their lone tables, but this book...it's not a dictionary. It's far too small. It's about the size of a Boxcar Children book, though maybe a bit thicker. Of course, upon further examination, the thickness could be exaggerated by the fact that it's a hardback.
You catch a glimpse of the title. Literature by Unknown. The Unknown part is what really gets your attention. What could be more intriguing than a book written by a mystery author? You know nothing about him...or her. You know nothing about their mind, their world...only that they wrote this book.
A voice echoes in the back of your mind. Your boss telling you to "beware the literature." You laugh and shrug it off. What does she know about a little dusty book anyway? Nothing of course. Besides, it seems like it wants you to read it.
So...you lift it from the varnished table and hold it in your hands for a moment. It's surprisingly heavy for such a small book. You blow off the dust and it goes flying. You hear faint coughing, but think that you've only imagined it.
You hesitate for a moment...but open the book. The pages are yellowed and some are even torn; several have been taped back together. You read page after page...you're reading faster than you've ever been able to read before. It's such a good book. It's of a brave hero, and a quiet prince. It spins the tale of a spunky princess and a frightened dragon. It weaves the magic story of a sorceress who despises plums. Everything in the book seems to be one giant story made up of little stories.
When at last you come to the end, you sigh happily, because...well...that was such a good book. You know you could never find a book like it again. Then you realize...there's one more page left. You turn it, and--
©2016 Katie Holm
