Excerpt: "Pink-Haired Witches Guild" (Modus Primarus Monologukung)
Bereft of his writing employment, working as a community college custodian, Lark tries to get back in the groove of writing at the library. But as usual, people are jerks.
It sounded kind of annoying. Like a breathing noise in your ear, loud as a yell. The music was too late. Music should play the background in places like this, but it was foregrounding everything.
I covered my ears a moment, but knew I wouldn’t be able to focus that way. So unable to stand it, I stood.
The girl had pink hair. She looked kind of calm, although wide-eyed and straight-back attentive, perhaps eccentric but kind in the bright-toothed smile, maybe even understanding and considerate.
“Excuse me. Hi there.”
“Hi. Can I help you.”
“Yeah, I’m trying to write over here, but the noise level is just too much. I can’t focus.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry about that.” Her smile faded to furrowed eyebrows, a pleading look of concern. “I’ll fix that right away.”
“Not a problem.”
I turned for just a moment. I remembered I needed to check out some books, turned back and said, “One more th--”
I saw it. Just for a moment, her face turned to another employee, her eyes wider, her lips drawn up baring her teeth, her face forming a look of apparent contempt for me and my inquiries.
She recovered fast enough. “Sorry? Something else?”
“Ah -- never mind?”
“Ok. Be sure to let me know if there’s anything else I can help with.”
Books on books. Paper on paper. There be gods of trees, dryads, spirits of nature locked up in the binding, dead as the bark and skin that holds them. I’d be there with them if my flesh was profitable, a commodity, but it’s not. Though not all flesh is unprofitable. That’s where the blessing comes in, not thought of as something for sale -- chicken, prostitutes, politicians and pulled pork.
It was one of those great undead. She, the woman at the cashier, a stare that seemed alive but rotted on the inside. Not sure why she had to be spiteful. But that’s just the nature of people, isn’t it?
Coronary graze, out from a corner gaze, like death’s rays, the ultimate death ray, zapping me of strength, that she, a stranger, could disdain -- nay, dishonor me so.
The whole thing’s ridiculous.
Fire shouldn’t burn without the heat of flames. But here I am, steaming, embittered, thinking about it too much.
Nestor remembers. As do I. And battles can’t be forgotten, much less those that torture you like wars fought over love, jealousy, spite.
How’d I get on that?
Anyways, Kierkegaard has nothing to say today anyway, so I’ll leave his Either/Or for now. Maybe rest my brain for once.
I take to the door, leaving book oceans, coral hair, the roaring waves of a library’s silence.
Cascading out, falling, not sure where I go from here. THe streets are loud, louder, the din and rave too much. College students run about, all laughing -- no one can be serious anymore. Except for me. And I look miserable, unsmiling, wanting them to be silent. Like a librarian taking to the world to quiet them all, to make the world my library. A regime of silence.
Mutes. They’re the people that should dominate the world. That’d make us all more reticent. I’d feign an unspeaking tongue, blend right in with them -- if only for silence.
I know why some cultures, some tribes, some religions even, cut out the tongues of offenders and enemies.
Maybe I’ll just go home.
Take a nap.
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