So I made a new blog. It was about time, my blogging fingers were getting itchy. I've taken to recording voice memos while driving, especially when I've left somewhere just so I can go home and write. This is one of those times. Below is the excerpt that I wrote when I got home, a short, unedited, probably grammatically incorrect piece of first draft. But then you can see where the idea becomes a story, and a story becomes a character, and then it becomes real. To me, at least. I know the memo above is 12 minutes, but it makes more sense if you listen then read below...... okay. Bye now.
It stood there, looming at me. It was an ugly building, as
all malls are, the cinderblock walls painted pale beige, now peeling from lack
of care and weather. I didn’t want to go in.
That was a lie. My old self was begging to go in.
I tend to avoid cities, the stink of decaying bodies and
dark corners keep me away most of the time. But cities are where the food is,
the packaged food that promises to stay good for twenty years. I needed some of
that food.
So I hadn’t seen a bookstore in over a year and a half,
since I spent most of my time in the woods, away from what I dread most. Now
I’m standing in front of one, and I can’t decide.
I racked my brain trying to remember the last time I read a
book was, and it jumped to a year prior when I was still with Him. The dead
Him. He had a dog-eared copy of Game of Thrones, and I devoured the words in a
day, my eyes stingy and dry by the end of it. He was impressed. I was thirsty
for more.
My feet propelled forward before my brain decided, my body
longing for a copy of anything-anything! I’d read shitty Wuthering Heights if
that’s all that’s left.
The door swung open easily as my gloved hand tugged,
expecting a rusty door. That sent alarms off in my head. Who else has been here
recently? I look around, my rifle nested comfortably in the crook of my
shoulder. Nothing. Just wind. I shook off the feeling and stepped forward
slowly, crushed glass crunching under my boots. The store was dark, pitch black
towards the back. I stood inside for a minute, listening, letting my eyes
adjust to the dimness. Silence.
Most of the bookshelves are still standing, no doubt bolted
to the ground and heavy as hell. Back in the day people would sue if they got
hurt by anything, so safety first. I chuckle at the memory. Self-entitled assholes.
The books were scattered everywhere, most of them gone. No doubt used for
burning and warmth, because it’s Minnesota. Winters are hard. I walk slowly,
still remembering the layout from my teenage years. It’s funny how you
remember, just like in your grocery store, exactly where your item is. I knew
where the young adult section was, and sure as shit the sign still stood, faded
with time, announcing the young adult section.
I smile. I reach forward and grab a book in front of me, the
grey mask still pictured on the cover. It was a national phenomenon, this
story. Pure shit, too, so I wasn’t wasting my backpack space on shit. I set it
back down.
In the first time in years, I meander. I pick books up and
set them back down, bored by the synopsis on the back or reminded that I had
read it already.
After twenty minutes of looking, I narrow down my choices to
two, a post-apocalyptic thriller I had read once previously, and a tale about a
small family in post-war Vietnam. I don’t remember the last time I have been
this excited for something in my future. I’m already planning the next time I
can come back when I hear something- something close.
I crouch into the darkness of the floor, quickly stuffing
the two paperbacks in to my bag, trying to be as quiet as possible.
In this world, you don’t know anything but this: they’re
trying to find you. Always.
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