5:00 AM
I couldn't sleep in this morning. I woke up and felt...compressed. Like I'd been stuffed in a box and left in the attic. I've opened all the windows, even though it's freezing and damp outside, but my apartment still feels a little stuffy.
5:07 AM
Perhaps it is an omen of deep dark frightening things. The stuffiness, I mean. Yesterday my library was ravished by religious delinquents, today my apartment is stuffy when it's 35 degrees outside. I'm beginning to see a pattern. An ominous pattern.
5:10 AM
Never mind. It's just that my heater's decided to start working again, and of course I had it cranked up to the highest it could go when it was broken as though my turning it up would make a difference (what with it being broken and whatnot). And it has made a difference now, and it appears to keep wanting to make a difference because now it won't turn off.
5:12 AM
Perhaps this is God's way of getting back at me for laughing at the fact that he didn't strike my library with lightening. Bastard.
5:14 AM
Altan Yilmaz is on my black list. Why doesn't God punish heartless jilters as opposed to innocent librarians?
5:30 AM
Tea makes everything a little more bearable. Tea, tea, tea...Good heavens, my dentures fell in the kettle. I'll fish them out with my salad clompers.
6:00 AM
I will brace myself and go to the library in half an hour. I must view the destruction with a brave heart, like Bilbo in "The Hobbit." If ever I die--and I must assume that I will, it seems to happen to everyone else--I want to have that book with me. Perhaps I should start carrying it with me wherever I go, just in case I die suddenly and without warning. Perhaps I'll be hit by a bus on my bike on the way to the library. Or someone will poison my tea. Or Altan Yilmaz will murder me out of tortured guilt he feels every time he sees me because he realizes what a cruel person he was to leave me waiting and he can't stand it any longer and so he'll take a coffee mug to me and bludgeon me to death.
6: 05 AM
And then he'll die of shame. Because he'll have killed me. I wonder what it's like to be murdered. Uncomfortable, I expect.
6:35 AM
I cannot delay it anymore. I'm going to the library to assess the damage. Perhaps I can salvage some books from the pile that they burned. I'm heading out on my bike now.
With my copy of "The Hobbit" in my pocket. You never know, with buses.
6:50 AM
No chance of saving an entire book. There are a few pages scattered here and there, but they're a bit charred. It's all a big pile of gooey ashes that have sort of cemented from yesterday's rain. It's not raining right at the moment, but the sky looks like miso soup broth.
7:00 AM
I almost had a heart attack, coming in here to the library. The shelves are a mess--I think more than half the books were stolen. It makes me sick to look at it.
I need tea.
7:02 AM
Scratch that. The teapot's broken. Die, world.
7:06 AM
Good heavens, there's a dead man on the floor.
7:06 1/2 AM
No such luck. He's asleep, and it's the man who ordered the crazy religious whackjobs to burn my books. Perhaps I should spear him one last time with my umbrella. How dare he sleep in MY library?
"GET UP!"
7:07 AM
That perked him up. He looks affronted. Tough cookies.
"You," he's saying. Well, who else does he expect to find in this library? Besides a few regulars--and they're all weird, every last one of them, all obsessed with one thing or another--Macy and I are really the only ones who are ever here. Surprise, there's a librarian in the library!
"You have no right to be sleeping in here. Out." I'm pointing at the doors, but he doesn't seem to get the message. What is it with these people and their inability to understand simple body language?
He's drawing himself up, as though he's here for some sort of worthy cause. "Ma'am, I'm here to finish my task."
"And I'm here to foil it, you fiend!" I brandished my umbrella and I bared my dentures at him. I have no idea what sort of task he's going to finish, but judging by the disgusting pile of ashes outside, he isn't the sort of person who does any kind of acceptable tasks. Ooh, I should add that to my rules of requirement for entering my library:
#6-->Thou shalt not engage in suspicious activities that involve any kind of god and/or freakish religion.
7:15 AM
He's walloped me! In the stomach! Brute! Walloping an old woman like that! I can barely breath! No, really, I think he's dented something important, I'm heaving for air...
I've thrown up all over the floor, and of course these floors are carpeted, it'll take ages to clean it up...
"You cannot deny the word of God." The worst part is that he sounds nice. I don't like people who are not nice sounding nice. He's so calm. Like I'm not really a problem. I AM a problem, and he WILL deal with me if he thinks he's going to be doing any kind of task in here--
"I was waiting for you to return. You are an instrument of Satan, and you must be purified, along with this building of Sin."
7:19 AM
I'm trapped in here with a complete lunatic. This is why I hate religion. Look what it's DONE to him--"You think your religion justifies you being a psychopath?" I tried to scream that, but all I can do right now is squeak because I haven't quite got my breath back. But I squeaked in a very menacing way. What to do, what to do...Just because I was curious this morning about how it feels to be murdered doesn't mean I actually wanted to try it out--I think I'd best toss that out there in hope that whoever controls these sorts of events takes that into consideration. As depressing as this library looks right now, I'm not ready to die until I've fixed it up again.
7:20 AM
He's coming closer. Time to run away.
7:21 AM
Crawl.
7:21 and a bit AM
Help.
7:22 AM
He's singing again, like last night. Another hymn, I can dredge my memories of it from the church I used to attend so long ago. I'm crawling like mad, but he's got this rather ingenious advantage of being young and able to walk and still having proper use of his lungs.
And he's using them to sing what was a perfectly good Gospel song before he dirtied it with his creepy zeal.
There's no hiding place down here,
there's no hiding place down here;
Well I ran to the rocks to hide my face,
the rocks cried out "No hiding place,
there's no hiding place down here."
And he keeps coming, no matter how madly I crawl across this old carpet. I have to get to my feet, have to do something other than wriggle across the floor like a desperate fish.
7:26 AM
I've managed to get behind the front desk, moving like a soldier trying to avoid gunfire in a movie. And that twit keeps coming and singing, coming and singing...
I'll pitch my tent on cold ground,
I'll pitch my tent on cold ground,
Oh I'll pitch my tent on this cold ground,
and give old Satan one more round,
There's no hiding place down here.
He's going to have to worry about a damn sight more than Satan when I'm through with him.
Plan! Oh, I have a plan! Thank heavens for the inspiration pure panic and desperation spurs into existence! I'll pull the fire alarm bell, right here on the wall, it'll wake up the whole town and I'll be rescued! It's the most annoying fire alarm ever. People are bound to rush over out of sheer fury.
7:30 AM
I've pulled it! Ha! He's covered his ears and jumped back! TAKE THAT!
7:31 AM
He's attacking! Not fair! I pulled the alarm, he should just burst into tears and await his arrest--He's setting the library on fire. "RULE NUMBER SEVEN! DO! NOT! SET MY LIBRARY ON FIRE!"
I'll skewer him with my umbrella if it's the last thing I do!
7:32 AM
It's the last thing I think I'm going to do. He's thrown me into one of the shelves, and the books and cheap flimsy shelves are piled around me--I can't see anything but smoke and all I can hear is the crackling pop of the fire--all that dry paper and wood is going to go up fast, and I am stuck. Well it's a good thing I pulled the alarm, surely they've heard it--surely...
Oh, the devil wears a hypocrite's shoe,
Yeah the devil, he wears a hypocrite's shoe,
The deavil wears a hypocrite's shoe,
If you don't watch out he'll slip it on you,
there's no hiding place down here...
My first order of business will be to rip that man's lungs out when I'm out of here. Violently. I'm having trouble breathing through this smoke, now--what is it you're supposed to do? Stay low to the ground and crawl to safety? Good, because crawling is about all I can do.
7:34 AM
No, I tell a lie--my legs are trapped under a shelf. Crawling is not an option. They better hurry up with that rescue. They do know I'm in here, don't they? I mean, I get here every morning, early. It's what I do.
7:40 AM
It's what I did. Can't breath...the cats...did I feed the cats this morning? My feet are tingling, I think they've gone asleep under the shelves, and I can't move my legs...It's hot in here, is the heater broken?
Ain't no hiding place down here...
His voice was so far away, and it really wasn't the last thing I wanted to hear.
7:42 AM
The siren blared across the cold, damp streets and woke up everyone and his dog--especially the dogs. The canines howled at the sound and the growing stench of smoke that hung stiffly in the humid air. It took a while, but people crawled out of their beds, irate and ready to shoot whoever set off the alarm.
Some people gathered at the library, which had smoke billowing out of its crevices. A man was standing outside, singing. Not very well, but it was a catchy song, for a hymn.
15 years ago
"yes," he said, meeting her eyes, "but theres one thing I have to do first."
ReplyDeleteHe strode over to the seat and picked up a book.
"The Complete Works of William Shakespeare: The First Folio" read the cover. There was a small sticker that read "Property of Odum public library"
___ . . . ___
They approached what was once the public library.
"Are you sure that they really care if you return it now?" Miranda said.
"I don't care if they care," he said, "I need to return it."
"Plus," he added as an afterthought, "the librarian definitely cares. I wouldn't even be surprised if she was here, I don't think she ever leaves."
He opened the door and walked into the burnt lobby of the library. It was a miracle it was still standing.
He saw a body on the floor, half covered by a burnt bookshelf.
He didn't need to go any closer to know who it was, but he did so anyways.
She was here, he was right, and now she would never leave.
He set the book gingerly against her.
"There," he said, "I've returned it, now how much is my late fee?"
AN EXCERPT FROM ". . . who was once handsome and tall as you"
ReplyDelete"Say that my answer was, RECALLED TO LIFE."
-Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities
A librarian died today.
I awoke from fevered dreams to the sound of sirens and alarms. My burned hand had made sleep intermittent and uncomfortable, and I wanted to stay in bed. However, the sound of the sirens only grew louder, so I forced myself out from under the covers to make one last trip down to the library.
Shuffling blearily down the street I was joined by throngs of other early-morning gawkers. I half-recognized most of them. They were people I'd probably passed in the street many times, but never spoken to or acknowledged. Our mindless parade was accompanied by a chorus of howling and barking, as if all the neighborhood strays were singing some cacophonous elegy.
When we reached the library, the police were already removing the body. Two of them had the black bag on a stretcher, moving laboriously through the debris and slowly dissipating smoke. In the grey haze the ruins of the library looked ancient, rather than newly destroyed. Policemen moved around, busily questioning the onlookers. Did you know the victim? No one seemed to.
When it was my turn, I asked the bored-looking officer who the victim was. The librarian, he said, did you know her? I told him no and he moved on. The librarian. No was too simple an answer. But then, the police probably didn't care that she had berated me for bringing food into her domain or once debated the relative importance of the number two. After all, I'd never even learned her name.
The only person to answer the policemen's question in the affirmative was a young woman in yellow pajamas. I'd have thought I would have noticed before if anyone else worked at the library, but apparently not. After her brief questioning, the woman wandered about in a daze, only stopping to ask a medic a question.
How should I feel?
I watched as she was brushed off and left to aimlessly drift deeper into the ruins. It wouldn't do any good to talk to her. I had nothing to say. But a few minutes later, I followed, finding her huddled in a corner with a salvaged book.
What was her name? I asked.
She looked up, blinking as though I'd shone a bright light into her eyes. She put down the book, The Search for Intelligent Life, and spoke.
Oh, she said, Edith. Edith E. Evans.
I'll try to remember that, I said.
What's your name?
Jack F. Alwyn.
You're not bad, Jack. I'm Macy. What do you do?
I make snow, I said, snow machines. Ones that make real snow. At least, I'm trying to. It's not easy, you know?
I know. I wait for aliens. It's not easy either.
Aliens? What will you do if they don't show up?
She furrowed her brow, pondering the question. She bit her lip, and her finger nails, and finally looked back at me.
Well, she started, I suppose . . . I suppose it's just important that they know, that if they come, if they wanted to come, that is, that they'd know they would be welcome.
She picked up her book again and resumed reading. I left her alone, left the ruins, left the dregs of the crowd, and returned to my apartment. Waiting where I had left it, the machine dominated the cramped room. Pipes and wires and laptop screens culminated in a great bubble of glass at the center of my apartment. The globe was big enough for a man to walk inside of.
. . .
AN EXCERPT FROM "... who was once handsome and tall as you"
ReplyDelete"Say that my answer was, RECALLED TO LIFE."
-Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities
A librarian died today.
I awoke from fevered dreams to the sound of sirens and alarms. My burned hand had made sleep intermittent and uncomfortable, and I wanted to stay in bed. However, the sound of the sirens only grew louder, so I forced myself out from under the covers to make one last trip down to the library.
Shuffling blearily down the street I was joined by throngs of other early-morning gawkers. I half-recognized most of them. They were people I'd probably passed in the street many times, but never spoken to or acknowledged. Our mindless parade was accompanied by a chorus of howling and barking, as if all the neighborhood strays were singing some cacophonous elegy.
When we reached the library, the police were already removing the body. Two of them had the black bag on a stretcher, moving laboriously through the debris and slowly dissipating smoke. In the grey haze the ruins of the library looked ancient, rather than newly destroyed. Policemen moved around, busily questioning the onlookers. Did you know the victim? No one seemed to.
When it was my turn, I asked the bored-looking officer who the victim was. The librarian, he said, did you know her? I told him no and he moved on. The librarian. No was too simple an answer. But then, the police probably didn't care that she had berated me for bringing food into her domain or once debated the relative importance of the number two. After all, I'd never even learned her name.
The only person to answer the policemen's question in the affirmative was a young woman in yellow pajamas. I'd have thought I would have noticed before if anyone else worked at the library, but apparently not. After her brief questioning, the woman wandered about in a daze, only stopping to ask a medic a question.
How should I feel?
I watched as she was brushed off and left to aimlessly drift deeper into the ruins. It wouldn't do any good to talk to her. I had nothing to say. But a few minutes later, I followed, finding her huddled in a corner with a salvaged book.
What was her name? I asked.
She looked up, blinking as though I'd shone a bright light into her eyes. She put down the book, The Search for Intelligent Life, and spoke.
Oh, she said, Edith. Edith E. Evans.
I'll try to remember that, I said.
What's your name?
Jack F. Alwyn.
You're not bad, Jack. I'm Macy. What do you do?
I make snow, I said, snow machines. Ones that make real snow. At least, I'm trying to. It's not easy, you know?
I know. I wait for aliens. It's not easy either.
Aliens? What will you do if they don't show up?
She furrowed her brow, pondering the question. She bit her lip, and her finger nails, and finally looked back at me.
Well, she started, I suppose . . . I suppose it's just important that they know, that if they come, if they wanted to come, that is, that they'd know they would be welcome.
She picked up her book again and resumed reading. I left her alone, left the ruins, left the dregs of the crowd, and returned to my apartment. Waiting where I had left it, the machine dominated the cramped room. Pipes and wires and laptop screens culminated in a great bubble of glass at the center of my apartment. The globe was big enough for a man to walk inside of.
. . .
Alex read the newspaper today. Well, she read the obituaries. The librarian died. No. The librarian was killed. Set to flames in her own library. Alex didn't really know her, but she drank a cup of tea in her memory. The obituary said Edith E. Evans loved tea. So Alex had a cup of Earl Grey as Sam slept soundly on her couch.
ReplyDeleteEventually he woke up and she showed him the paper. He was silent, but soon decided to walk down to the library. Alex joined him. They walked in silence through the streets that were so chaotic just the day before. The air smelt like burnt paper and Alex suddenly craved the smell of the ocean again. They arrived at the library.
There was a large crowd of people surrounding the pile of burnt knowledge. Every inhabitant of this demented town watched as the body of Edith E. Evans was pulled out of the rubble and put into the back of an ambulance. Sam didn't want Alex to watch. He didn't want to himself. The sight, however, was impossible to look away from.
Alex looked at Sam's saddened face and then at the crowd and what was left from the library. And then she made her decision. She would go back to her past life. She would tell Sam tomorrow and he could join her if he desired. But she had to go back. She had to be back on the sea. She had to go home.
"He directed Himself to the heaven… and He knows all things.” [Qur'an 2:29]
ReplyDeleteI saw something reborn today. Turning away from the smoldering remains of religion and knowledge, I regarded the monolith. Neglecting the faithful and the ignorant, the giant protector had allowed the unthinkable to occur. Thirteen floors high, the only defense from eternal damnation had abandoned its city, and its reasons were clear to no one but me:
The tower itself had been abandoned.
Not by the human filth who inhabited it, defiling the walls with grime and its beds with copulation. No, they remained, and would remain until eviction by their own demise. This crumbling fortress now lacked its Lord. Exiled or executed, He was gone and there would be no second coming.
I approached the edifice.
Throwing open the flimsy doors, I stepped into the empty lobby, pushing through the gathering crowd floating towards the exit. When the doors to my chariot slid open, I entered and pressed the button for the very top. With the ringing of a bell, I began my ascent.
In that moment I realized who I was not anymore.
I was not the dying man afraid of the sky. Not the guilty offender who gets out early for good behavior. I was not an insignificant looking for someone to come to my rescue. I did not need to be rescued. I was not confined to the sidewalks.
In that moment I realized who I am now.
I am the King in the Tower, the beekeeper. I grant unto the sun. I drive the bus. I am the fallible judge whose every word is law. I burned the seat of the one I followed, and now I am more than Him. I am the watcher, the instigator who remains far off. I am the almighty blinding light, the Almighty.
I am God.
From the penthouse apartment, I gaze down upon my kingdom: frozen, just as I had left it. To thaw it, I have begun a third fire. In the early morning, my followers on the ground are gathering around the smoldering building, waiting. I can see the paramedics pulling a lifeless woman from the rubble.
As the ambulance pulls away silently, cars resume their travel. The world spins again.
Altan whimpered. He'd woken up again - it was 4 am. He never found Ms. Evans... Edith... yesterday. His first idea had been to go to the library of course. That proved impossible - there were people, so many people, blocking the way, and the crowd grew thicker and thicker the closer to the library he got. He saw flames over their heads and sobbed. What was happening? Where was she? Where did the fire come from? So was the library on fire too? Ah, the mosque was on fire! Where should he go? What should he do now?
ReplyDeleteAltan tried to push through the mass of people, but he was too old and weak to do so. No one even noticed him and his pleading to pass through. Altan felt powerless and empty, especially without his cart. It was back in his apartment because it would have been foolish to bring it out with him, like he was going to try to sell coffee in the midst of this crisis. But with it he felt important and purposeful, and it would have made a decent battering ram. For hours Altan yelled, pushed, pinched, and tried to squeeze through the crowd with little success. He got just close enough to see that the library itself wasn't on fire, but was that a bonfire of books in the street? Where was Edith? How could this happen? Who'd done this?
Back in his bed, Altan slowly fell back asleep, determined that he would see Edith today. As soon as the sun rose, he'd call upon her in her apartment. He'd have to hurry though, she left early for work... if she even made it back to her apartment.
At 9 am, Altan woke with a start and then jumped out of bed. He was late! The sun had just peeked through the overhanging clouds for a minute, and the brightness had woken the old man. He was so tired from the day before, but he had felt sure his strong will and desire to see Edith face to face would have woken him with such energy and adrenaline that he could have done anything. But it was already 9 am and she'd frown upon his tardiness.
Altan rushed through his apartment getting ready then hobbled down the stairs. Dejá vu he thought. Out on the street, he hurried past Jedediah, still chanting the hymn that had filled the town the day before. Police cars and an ambulance rushed by Altan and he wished he could move that fast. He had to see Edith, talk to her, relieve his guilt.
Upon arriving to the library, Altan noticed the restless, noisy crowd - had they stayed the night? What did they want with Edith and her books? A library was a place of peace and knowledge, not of ignorance and harassment. Altan joined them, again attempting to push through.
"-dead!"
"What?"
"They said she's dead!"
"Who's dead?"
"Some old lady."
"The librarian."
"The librarian?"
"The librarian."
"Dead?"
"Yes!"
"Shame."
Dead? Dead? Altan seemed to sag, weighted down with bitterness and grief, more so than normal for a 70-year-old man. He fell away and drifted back into the cruel landscape of the city. The mosque was gone - was Allah gone? Edith was gone - was his dignity gone? Was his heart? His kahve cart was still around - he could continue to sell his coffee, make money, spend money, provide for himself...
Battered and maimed, as one is when one experiences a great loss, Altan shuffled back to the tower with this knowledge. The simple idea of materialism was the only thing that tied him to humanity now.