So….today I have felt an explosion of creativity. It has been strange. As if I have an abundance of thoughts that are both rememberance of things past, but with ideas of how things might have been different. A way of making portions of my life, which are vivid in my memory, turn from my past into present fiction.

So here is my second challenge. This time you’ve got 10 minutes. I feel like this was less successful for me, but I wanted to write something unrelated to my previous post. Here is what I came up with:

The top floor of the library always smelled the best. The books seem to have gotten more sunlight, and the smell of book binding glue and aged paper seemed to permeate the place. I loved it there, not only for the smell, but because I felt it was mine. No one bothered to come to the 6th floor. None of the books were in high demand, unless you were researching old cookbooks, or old medical text books, and it was thought to be haunted. If it was, I am sure the ghosts were more scared of me muttering Spanish vocabulary words out loud, than I was of their potential spiritual presence. The floors new my feet from my pacing, and the carrels knew my thoughts. I had read the graffiti on them thousands of times. Someone was a skank, someone had a dick. Whether it was tiny or enormous depended on which crossed out word you read. Old phone numbers, crude drawings of sex or violence, and one that always kept my eye. “If it is gone, I will never forgive myself.” It was etched into the corner of the carrel, and the lines ran deep. I often wondered “it” was. Was “it” in this library? Was “it” gone? Could it be taken and replaced, or was it like someone’s virginity? Once gone, never to be restored?

I would think about this when I couldn’t study any longer. I’d dream that he would return, and find me, the only one who dared to study on the 6th floor. Sometimes he would simply walk by, search through stacks, and breathe a sigh of relief. Whatever it was, it was there. Other times he would stand near the carrel, obviously waiting for me to leave, and for awhile I would stay. I wanted him to know this place was more mine than his. Sometimes, I’d imagine he would be angry. Furious. Ripping books off shelves and throwing them to ground. Franticly searching for whatever “it” was. I’d find him in a stack, in the fetal position amongst the sweet smelling books which he’d tossed aside, and then he would kiss me. It wasn’t gentle, but angry. As if I was a living version of “it”, which he would rather devour now than risk losing again. It was a kiss that would excite me at first, but frighten me after the shock. I would see myself clawing to escape, but whatever I did it would not work. I could feel his embrace on me grow tighter to the point of suffocation. Like with enough pressure my body would simply be in his. It was erotic, but horrible. I would have to stop seeing the vision in my head, as imagining the scenario any further seemed to frightening to bear.

After graduating, I never really thought about the carrels or the graffiti. I mainly remembered the smell of the room and the quiet times I had. On occasion however I think about going up there, and seeing if the message is still written on that carrel, and see if there are signs that whoever wanted to retain “it” has found it remained or been lost.

Anyone up for the challenge?


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