Don't Forget To Knit Awesome!

Knitting our collective way out of a paper bag since 2011

Archive for the category “Fiction”

That last story entry again.

I am reposting the last entry in order to get everyone, including myself, caught up/ reminded of where we’re at.


This room, guys.  It had dozens of shelves, some as high as 20 feet tall.  The shelves were as eclectic as the books filling them.  As I walked around, utterly enthralled,  I saw titles in a hundred languages.  The titles I could read dealt with subjects from Anthropology, to theoretical economic implications of Zoltron.  I flipped through various books in languages I couldn’t read, and they had wonderful diagrams.  Diagrams that would look amazing on the wall of an sort of building.  As I reached for my phone to get a picture of a particularly fantastic one, I relaized I had left my phone behind.  Which, in turn, reminded me that I wasn’t chilling in an awesome room.  I remembered that I was, in fact, running for my life.

I rushed back to the door, and hey, there’s no knob.  The door didn’t open from the inside.  And that’s super frightening.  This wasn’t a bedroom, it was a prison.  A really comfy and pretty one, but a prison without windows or a bathroom.  So, naturally, I trapped myself inside it.   And yet, I was drawn back to the books.  I did a kind of emotional shrug, and went back to the shelves.  I browsed for a bit, to find the most interesting English book.  When I found it, I pulled it, sat on the bed, and read.

I read deeply.  I had always done that.  My entire life, I was able to fall deeply into anything with pages.  Before I learned to read, I flip through art and architecture books.  I’d wistfully admire the brushstrokes and brick facades.  Eventually, I learned to read.  Everything.  Pamphlets, catalogs, books, magazines, and comics.  Textbooks, I didn’t do homework, but I’d read the whole damn thing.

Then suddenly, I heard the screech of tires.  And I was 17 again.  And everyone around me was covered in blood.  Why was I at prom again?

Story Story Story.

“You really have an attention problem, you know.  Do you understand why you’re here?  Or why you’re speaking to a magical creature?”  asked my unreal savior.  Tapping his right front foot impatiently, he looked at me imploringly.  I would have liked to kept moving, after being snapped out of my revere, but he actually wanted answers.  I seriously thought about what reply wouldn’t make this gargoyle want to eat me, but then I started to wonder what gargoyles ate.  I really couldn’t remember any legends about them, and certianly not any academic lore.  After about 30 seconds of my thinking, Hemingway nodded and sighed dramatically.

“If you don’t know yet, you probably shouldn’t.  Listen, I’m going to return to my post, and send you down the hallway by yourself.   The cellar is unused, and the impostor priest has no idea it exists.  Head to the back wall, and there is a grate in the wall, which will lead you to a bar down the street.  It wasn’t originally a bar.  No, I don’t know why it’s  bar now.  No, I can’t get your stuff back.  Yes, you’ll see me again.  No, it’ll be tonight.  Go. Now.” With this, Hemingway turned and trotted back the way we came.  And I was left alone.

I watched him leave, then fixed my shirt.  I looked closely at the walls, the ceiling and the floor.  I cleared my throat and willed myself to stop wasting time.  After a bit of hard willing, I actually went down the hallway.  I went around all three abrupt turns and went into the first door I came into.  This was not a cellar.  This was a grand old bedroom, with amazing furniture and a vast library on one wall.  This is where I was staying for a couple hours.

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