March 7 folks, and yes again – it’s writing day. No book review, No sir! Only good solid fiction writing, and NOTHING even suggestive of the reality you’ve so bravely and courageously left.
But first:THE STORY of WRITING
Anyways. Onward for fiction! (And possible something bigger)
When she looked at it again, the thing had changed. No longer was it covered in dust and probably some not-so-pleasant bits of mold; the book looked like it had been plucked from the front shelf of a Barnes and Noble. Strange, she thought, I’m fairly certain it didn’t look like that a second ago. No. In fact, as she picked up her camera in confusion, her suspicion heightened astronomically. It certainly hadn’t looked that new.
Her camera showed the book, or ‘thing’ she privately called it, looking exactly as she had seen it a couple of minutes ago. Old. Horrendously ancient and a little insulting to her taste. But standing alone in the newly acquired burial site she had located on her solo travels, it didn’t seem so funny to think that. It seemed rather dangerous.
But it was only a book. Just a small, worn copy of her favorite Shakespeare play – wait just one second. Her eyes did a double take as she blinked uncomprehendingly at it. How was that even possible? For all intents and purposes, her well-loved copy of Coriolanus was sitting there, being dirtied by the cave around it. A moment passed. The urge to take it with her grew stronger.
She hadn’t yet called the usual suspects: her contractor, her team. No one knew where she was. Her phone lay silent in her pocket, but she couldn’t find it within herself to pick it up and report this unusual object that lay before her. Was it a defense mechanism? Some form of protection that had existed in a past? How did it know what her favorite play was?
The silence was deafening. And she continued to stare at it. It hard to decide what to do, because on one hand – there was the fact she was possibly looking at an object, a kind of thing that had never been discovered before. If she did bring it to the attention of the contractor, her body wriggled in an uncomfortable shiver, he would send it to the all-feared Department of Intrusion and they would take it apart.
She would never see it again, the book that was many books at once. And that was simply unacceptable. It was simply not the smart thing to do, she knew, but at the same time – it twisted her gut to think of the poor testing that the thing would go through at the hands of that Department. So she did the thing that any sensible field surveyor would do.
“Louis, it’s Susan” her voice echoed outside of the cave, “I haven’t found anything for the last couple of weeks – complete bust on my part.”
A pause echoed in the suddenly tense air. “No, I know, no tools, no full sites, nada.” she continued in a slightly apologetic tone, “It was a waste of time”
A quick and clipped response from the other conversational partner and the phone clicked shut. Old gravel cracked under her feet as she walked back into the cave, shining a flashlight along the different layers of sediment. Sighing, she ran a dirt-covered hand up the bridge of her nose, it would be absolutely no help if she didn’t do some sort of research into what exactly she was looking at.
Her heart thumped as she watched the thing she called a book fluidly transform again – this time to something much more sinister. It looked nothing like what she would pick up at Barnes and Noble, and it didn’t look like her friendly copy of Coriolanus. No. It looked like something much hazier, a burnt black cover with ash fingerprints still embedded in the spine.
It would be worth it, Susan told herself, it had to be worth it.