This time, it is more of a beginning. I’m getting less and less told this week. However, there are good beginnings here. I may revisit either yesterday or today this weekend.
It was a dark and stormy night. No…seriously, it was late in the evening, thus dark, and it was storming outside. It sounds cliché, but it is true. I was in my apartment, slurping lo mien from Dim Fu’s, and watching pirated a Japanese anime I downloaded onto my laptop. I looked down for a moment, missing a few subtitles, to make sure I wasn’t going to drop some noodles in my lap, when there this huge flash. Lightning flew right past my window and struck a tree in the atrium on the first floor. Then it came. Thunder shook the building, it was the sonic boom from the lightning, and as I had gone to my window to see what was going on, the ceiling started to leak. Water started to slowly trickle right onto my laptop. My new laptop. I ran to move it out of the way, and as I jerked it away a flood poured through my apartment.
I stood there for a moment, drenched, with water slowly rising past my ankles, and bolted for the door. That night my landlord had to put half of us up in the Arlington. It was one of those old hotels, glamorous in the 30′s and 40′s, but was now more museum than hotel. My laptop was ruined, my keyboard seemed to think it was supposed to type in Cyrillic, and I had nothing to do. Thankfully, the Arlington had a parlor. It had been converted into a bar, but there were hundreds of old books on the shelves. I ran my fingers down the aged spines, and rolled my eyes at the titles. “Bobby’s Day”, “The Collected Poems of Natasha Dvorak”, and of course the strangest “Moose and Mice.” I doubted these would thrill me. They were pretty tame compared to my anime where an unknown hero had brought an entire village together to ward off the demon spirit from the netherworld, but that is when my hands found a small gap between two books. I peered closer and found about 20 pages which had been sewn together with thread. The pages were brittle and yellow, and the handwriting was from a time where penmanship was seemingly half art. The script looked like they belonged on a Mucha painting, it had so many curls and slants, but the first words were large for a reason. They read:
If you have found this, but do not know who I am. Return these pages to their proper place.
This intrigued me. Certainly whoever wrote this was dead. The pages were older than my parents. I defied the author’s mandate and read on.