Tomes

If knowledge is power, then behold the powerhouse...

Libraries have become multipurpose buildings in recent times. Once the palaces of knowledge and enlightenment, they are now dim, suspicious bunkers of secrets best forgotten and the philosophies of hate and destruction that brought these evil times down on us in the first place. In the province of Gulm is a vine-encrusted building of weathered and crumbled sandstone. Across the lintel is an inscription reading:

Jefferson Branch Library - Verba Vim Afferunt

And though the doors are barred and boarded, nail and bolt, it is not uninhabited—not by a far cry.

There are scurryings behind the crumbling structure, surreptitious comings and goings. Nasty fingers clutching bothersome tomes, marked up by poison pens. Out of the light of the day, the stench of yesterday's betrayals lingers in the still air. Pale faces with hungry eyes creep through the closed-up places and devour the age-old stories of malice with fetid glee.

Perhaps I should be ashamed; I am one of the guilty, having slunk in through a narrow way. My mind rebels against this silent cacophony of forbidden wisdoms and dank theories. I'll lurk thought these racks searching on: there must be—must be—something hidden away that will show us a way out of this catastrophe of a world we've sunken into. I skulk among the piles of rotted ideas and moldering visions, hoping to smuggle one gleaming ideal—

"Jeremy Miles! You put those books back this instant. You know you can't check out any more science fiction novels until you've paid your library fines. Now you go on before I have to call you mother again! And don't trip over the construction cones by the front door; Mr. Albee hasn't fixed it quite yet."

"Yes, Mrs. Lattimer..."

...And the old crone continues to hoard her ill-fated sack of others' thoughts and ideas...

(Word Count: 299)