Book keeper

The story of your life is yours to decide. By the way it's the first half and since it felt so robust I decided to post it and follow up with the second part later.

                The room very rustic, golden with earthen colors with every surface and crevice filled to bursting with wonderfully robust books with old yellow paper, and leather bindings with all the character of their writers. The light like that of a candle came from nowhere, creating a beautiful and soft saturation of light just comfortable enough to invite you to an eternity of gorging upon the literary feast.

                The spell was broken by a soft creaking; however, surprising simply did not provoke any real worry of what pressed upon the wooden floors, as whatever made them obviously couldn’t carry malignant intent upon the weight of its footsteps. The culprit was revealed to be a well aged man with dishelved wisps of white hair dressed in rough leather shoes, khakis, and sweater vest, seeming to have walked straight out of some clichéd passage from one of the many novels. Without the slightest hint of interest he paced across a wall of books quietly searching for some novel he obviously had no interest in before declaring

                “I bet you are looking for a book.” He said.

                I nearly responded in protest before soundly realizing I had no clue as to my actual intentions, all preceding incidents my means of travel, the place before, the jam on my toast; which I would have assumed I had, had I remembered eating breakfast, made no presence in my mind. So in reply I filled silence with unformed uhms and ahs before simply answering.

                “Probably.”

                “Well then you’ve, probably, come to the right place.” He pulled a terribly common looking book from the towers of shelves. “I think you’ll find interest in this one.”

                The binding was black cloth pasted on a stiff board with simple lettering titling it “By Zeke Watcher” a fairly distressing notion since it was my name printed across the front and I am very certain that I don’t recall getting published much like I am very certain that I don’t recall having breakfast in a kitchen that I hopefully have in a house or apartment that I hopefully live in that I hopefully drove from in a car vespa or at least bike I hopefully own. With these things very clear in my mind I said.

                “I’m confused.”

                “Oh I’m sure you are.” The old man replied paternally. “it’s all kinda confusin at first but let me see if I can make this very clear.” He turned from the towers of books and pulled up two chairs seemingly from nowhere. “Please take a seat.” he said politely.

                I took the invitation and sat as the old man slowly assumed a seat himself with the sound of  creaking bones and tired ligaments  before actually sitting down and scooting around to make himself comfortable, he then exhaled, almost dramatically, leaned forward,  looked me very stoically in the eye and said

                “You’re dead.”

                Having never really been a very sharp comical mind I sat silently and confused for a long standing moment before cracking out a

                “Ha! What an interesting joke I’ll have to try that one sometime, but, really what’s up?”

                The man tiredly dropped his head, reached out and tapped the book I was holding and said.

                “I know it’s poor practice but I think you’ll wanna read the last paragraph, or so, of the book, not that it matters anyway you’re probably pretty well acquainted with its contents already.”

                My brows knitted a little at the instruction but nonetheless I opened to the last page which read.

                “JESUS CHRIST! MY KNEES MY KNESS, WHAT VENGEFUL GOD WOULD DO THIS!”

                Or something like that the rest of the dialogue was a little unsettling.

                “That’s quite the ending.” I said curtly closing the book.

                “I know right, but anyways yeah you died much like that, word for word in fact, oh and did you know that it does pretty much the exact same thing for the entirety of your living life.”

                I sat quietly for a moment as the gears turned in my head about the cryptic implications of what he was saying. Eventually they revealed themselves and I answered.

                “So… this is the story of my life?”

                This was a very disheartening notion because the book couldn’t have been more than two hundred pages.

                “Exactly”

                Lightly insulted I looked at the stylish print across the dramatic black cover with the conversation in mind and said.

                “So I am to believe that I am in a bookstore or perhaps a library of the stories of men and women great and small that is kept in some ethereal existence outside of mortal life.”

                “My you’re a lot smarter than your book makes you out to be.”

                I began to worry about the company I was keeping because he seemed far too comfortable with the notions he was presenting and had the same tone as someone preparing for a long winded chastisement, and with those worries I plunged straight into the matter.

                “So why am I here then?”

                The old man chuckled a little and bettered his posture then answered.

                “Well you see I spend a lot of time in this building here and it’s just that I don’t have much to do except read the occasional novel with a little coffee, and when I feel like it a little chai. Now I am not really complaining I love a good novel but then once in a while I have to suffer the bitter pabulum that is your life and for a man whose eternity is devoted to simply reading there are few transgressions worse than bad literature so when the odd story like the one you’re holding there in your lap pops up it doesn’t exactly make my day you see.”

                “Well I am sorry that my life is so mundane.”

                “No no no no it’s one thing if it’s mundane it’s another if the entire novel is watching the deterioration of the story further and further into some epic of hum drum and misery that even the reader is conflicting over the matter blowing his brains out as much if not more than the character dancing that clumsy goosestep. No you sir are not mundane you have fallen into the category of misery, you have created an entirely new genre outside of horror or tragedy you are like the cyanide pill of writing.”

                I was pretty ambivalent about how to interpret that, and at the end of his small rant he looked me in the eye and made a face that said that he knew I didn’t get.

                “You know I think I could prattle on about that little story there but I think it would help if you were to simply read it and you know what afterwards you can tell me anything you want about it and I’ll believe you.”

                The latter half of the sentence surprised me

                “What is the significance of what I tell you about it?”

                Something caught between a snicker and a sneer broke across his face, as he began to stand up.

“Follow me” he gestured.

                We walked to, what I presumed to be the entrance to the shop, an intricately carved wooden door and brass handle. The old man then opened it, which rather than some suburban street or metropolitan alley way the door revealed the most clichéd vision of hell I had ever seen. Fire and brimstone, damned souls being tortured for eternity by impish demons cackling with sadistic glee. screams of agony, tearing flesh, and snapping bones created the most macabre orchestra seeming to only build to a crescendo that would never come, all of which went straight to my stomach as dry heaves set in at the sight.

                “Ok so here’s the challenge.” The old man said closing the door. “Read that book and honestly tell me that it is not worse than that.”

                Recovering some scrap of composure I calmed my labored breath and asked.

                “Or else I’ll?”

                “Hop right in there.” He answered bluntly. “Now tell me do you prefer coffee or tea when you read? I always enjoy a cup of Joe myself, oh, I might even have a donut or two left, but, I’ll go start the water.”

Author's Note

Comments please.

Reviews

[Demauscian]

At the beginning I was like, OMG this sounds epic in its awesome mix of detail and whimsicalness (is that even a word?). Like out of a 19th century novel of the like no one seems to write anymore these days!

the paragraph where you describe the book is a run-on sentence... FIX IT!

Then the old guy's like; "it’s all kinda confusin" and I'm all: "he's droppin his g's! Like a gansta... or Sarah Palin!"

He reads the last paragraph in the book then narrates: "Or something like that the rest of the dialogue was a little unsettling." but he, like, said 'like' in the paragraph before and that is, like, not okay.

You spelled "donut " wrong! Iz Doughnut.


So, anyway, very good writing, I WANT to see what happens next, and I am always happy to be Trollin' your comment section.
Until then, troll you later... or, see you later... which ever works for you!