As a companion piece to my last blog, this story was the result of the weird dream about being crushed by my to be read pile. It was first published by the lovely people at The Hoogly Review in their weekly features on the 1st of October 2023 .
Tobe Readpile
“Another
today will be costly,” the life-librarian says.
“How much?
I need another today before tomorrow,” I say
The
life-librarian sucks his teeth, smacking his lips together.
“It can be
deleted from the end of your life. Let me check on your status.”
Behind my
blindfold I hear footsteps chime on cold marble, rustling paper. The metallic
tang of ink tickles my nose. I can taste the heady vanilla notes of old books.
“Hmm, it is
not possible to grant you another today, you would die a day before the
accident, which would interfere with the smooth running of time. Request
denied.” The life-librarian snaps shut a book.
“What
accident? When? How long have I got?”
The echo
of a door closing thunders around and I am bundled along, my feet slipping and
missing steps. The blindfold is pulled away and my hands released from their
bindings. I am back in the ante-chamber of the library, the darkness of night pressing
against me.
How will I
finish this work without another today to read and absorb the issues? There is
so little time, and so many books to read. Behind me I hear a creak, my Tobe Readpile
is tottering. I adjust it, patting the books into a more stable column. I
regret putting that non-fiction book on court dress in the 17th
century in the pile, it finds it difficult to balance on the small paperback
book of similes and metaphors I found in that poky second-hand book shop.
I take a
step back and observe my Tobe Readpile. What can I move, or even read now that
will amend the situation? I could remove a few textbooks, perhaps they could
reasonably be put into my Ref Erencepile, but that buttress is now too high for
me to reach the top. Holi Daytrash comes bounding up to me, tongue lolling out
of a Jackie Collin’s I read as a teenager and always wanted to revisit. I
caress its suncream-slick top cover and it bumps against my leg. Creeping into
view is Goth Ichorror, its moonless midnight creating shadows that shouldn’t
exist. I have binged a few Stephen King’s recently, but Goth Ichorror still
grows with increasing vigour.
I face
them all.
“I have
some news,” I say, “I am going to have to skim read a few of you to get a
handle on your heights.” I watch them all shudder, a few titter and whimper.
Laughing
at my own decision, I pull out a best seller, it smirks back at the Tobe Readpile,
the twist sets off a ripple which turns into a tidal wave of paper, they start
to fall. I am floored by the Oxford English Dictionary and a thesaurus traps my
fingers between its hefty pages.
“Help,” I
call, but I know there is no one there. Holi Daytrash licks my face as Ref Erencepile
falls against Goth Ichorror and they tumble down, cascading words and thoughts
and ideas.
Until I no
longer breathe.
Love this, and the clever wordplay! xx
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