The Librarian
The Lynch
If you watch the same people coming in and out of your life everyday, you can begin to learn their traits and quirks, even begin to know them. But please, do not be fooled, this isn’t a friendship, friendships require trust, and trust is overrated. They know when I‘m watching - I’m always watching.
These people truly disgust me, honestly. They blatantly lie to my face and think I’m stupid. “Oh, she’s just the librarian, she doesn’t have feelings or thoughts.” But my children, oh I do, and I know all your dirty little secrets, and the world is about to learn them. I could go on, but no, that would dull you into a lumber, instead, I invite you in for a stroll in my library, take my hand.
_
Sunday. The clock tower chimed nine in succession, my job began. As I unbolted the door and pulled I was met with a strong wind, rather soothing actually. I didn’t expect anyone for a good few hours but I had to look professional, I didn’t care what they thought of me, but I sort of did; it’s like I was judging myself; you wouldn’t understand. I literally strolled back to my desk - a second home, and swished my mug around, little granules of coffee swirled around, crashing into the sides attempting to escape. I bit my bottom lip in thought. I wasn’t a huge caffeine fan, but I didn’t mind the stuff - I just don’t like drinking in front of them.
In the end I did get another coffee, but I damn near spilled it over everything when the bell rang (it does that whenever someone comes in), I wondered who it was, more in anger than anything. I didn’t own a big library, so it only took a good few seconds untill whoever it was came into sight. I pretended to be busy and stacked a couple of books behind me, their footsteps were loud on the old floorboards.
Pretty much everything in this place was either old or antique, my grandmother originally owned it, and in her time that stuff actually looked good. I restacked the books twice before he came in: It was Lynchy, I could never remember his real name so I called him that. He had a stern look about him, even angry if I dare say so; he knew what he came for; I could tell because he didn’t browse through every possible book in here like he normally does. He went straight to the history section - whilst taking the opportunity to eye up the World War II hardbacks.
He scanned through about three quarters of the first row then moved onto the next, he wasn’t the most patient of men. I took that rare chance to study him further. Rucksack. . . A full rucksack? Quarter past nine in the morning. . . that doesn’t add up even for him. For starters he doesn’t work at this time, in-fact he doesn’t work at all! I would of questioned him myself, but that would be oh-so unprofessional.
He was on the final row on the history shelf, and I doubted he would start again. About halfway to the end he grinned and pulled out a huge dusty book, (clichéd I know) he brought it to me and slammed it down on my desk. I was surprised he didn’t struggle to carry it, then again he did have quite a decent build - no, he had a great build, I won’t deny it.
“Can I take this out?” he asked, rudely if I might add, I glanced at it. 19th Century Tortures, I gave him a look, I’m not sure what look exactly, but he sure as hell knew I gave him it.
“I just need your card, please.” I held my hand out, it was there for quite some time too, my good friend Lynchy rummaged through his rucksack for it - A 4 inch wide library card in a huge rucksack, I’m telling you, this guy should be on mastermind! You won’t believe the next part, but I swear I saw some rope in there, and maybe even a knife too. I put the pieces together and I was a little worried to say the least. Eventually after what seemed hours he handed me it. I quickly ran it through the computer; a chance to read his name I wouldn‘t waste. S-seano-to. . . L-lynch-nton-son. Utter failure. What kind of a name is that anyway? His parents must of really hated him. I stamped the book and shoved it into his chest. “Thank you Mr L-l-lyn-n-n. . . sir.” Not a word came from him, he just took the book and just got the hell out of there, I don’t blame him either, I’m practically unsociable. I swirled my mug around again and sighed.
_
Every person that has ever walked in here, I create a fantasy story for them - lives even, mostly for my own humour rather than anything else. These stories are not fairytales, par the ones never published, the ones unfit for children. Is it truth or imagination? Even I couldn‘t answer that. Your first story is being told, pin your ears back and listen. . .
These people truly disgust me, honestly. They blatantly lie to my face and think I’m stupid. “Oh, she’s just the librarian, she doesn’t have feelings or thoughts.” But my children, oh I do, and I know all your dirty little secrets, and the world is about to learn them. I could go on, but no, that would dull you into a lumber, instead, I invite you in for a stroll in my library, take my hand.
_
Sunday. The clock tower chimed nine in succession, my job began. As I unbolted the door and pulled I was met with a strong wind, rather soothing actually. I didn’t expect anyone for a good few hours but I had to look professional, I didn’t care what they thought of me, but I sort of did; it’s like I was judging myself; you wouldn’t understand. I literally strolled back to my desk - a second home, and swished my mug around, little granules of coffee swirled around, crashing into the sides attempting to escape. I bit my bottom lip in thought. I wasn’t a huge caffeine fan, but I didn’t mind the stuff - I just don’t like drinking in front of them.
In the end I did get another coffee, but I damn near spilled it over everything when the bell rang (it does that whenever someone comes in), I wondered who it was, more in anger than anything. I didn’t own a big library, so it only took a good few seconds untill whoever it was came into sight. I pretended to be busy and stacked a couple of books behind me, their footsteps were loud on the old floorboards.
Pretty much everything in this place was either old or antique, my grandmother originally owned it, and in her time that stuff actually looked good. I restacked the books twice before he came in: It was Lynchy, I could never remember his real name so I called him that. He had a stern look about him, even angry if I dare say so; he knew what he came for; I could tell because he didn’t browse through every possible book in here like he normally does. He went straight to the history section - whilst taking the opportunity to eye up the World War II hardbacks.
He scanned through about three quarters of the first row then moved onto the next, he wasn’t the most patient of men. I took that rare chance to study him further. Rucksack. . . A full rucksack? Quarter past nine in the morning. . . that doesn’t add up even for him. For starters he doesn’t work at this time, in-fact he doesn’t work at all! I would of questioned him myself, but that would be oh-so unprofessional.
He was on the final row on the history shelf, and I doubted he would start again. About halfway to the end he grinned and pulled out a huge dusty book, (clichéd I know) he brought it to me and slammed it down on my desk. I was surprised he didn’t struggle to carry it, then again he did have quite a decent build - no, he had a great build, I won’t deny it.
“Can I take this out?” he asked, rudely if I might add, I glanced at it. 19th Century Tortures, I gave him a look, I’m not sure what look exactly, but he sure as hell knew I gave him it.
“I just need your card, please.” I held my hand out, it was there for quite some time too, my good friend Lynchy rummaged through his rucksack for it - A 4 inch wide library card in a huge rucksack, I’m telling you, this guy should be on mastermind! You won’t believe the next part, but I swear I saw some rope in there, and maybe even a knife too. I put the pieces together and I was a little worried to say the least. Eventually after what seemed hours he handed me it. I quickly ran it through the computer; a chance to read his name I wouldn‘t waste. S-seano-to. . . L-lynch-nton-son. Utter failure. What kind of a name is that anyway? His parents must of really hated him. I stamped the book and shoved it into his chest. “Thank you Mr L-l-lyn-n-n. . . sir.” Not a word came from him, he just took the book and just got the hell out of there, I don’t blame him either, I’m practically unsociable. I swirled my mug around again and sighed.
_
Every person that has ever walked in here, I create a fantasy story for them - lives even, mostly for my own humour rather than anything else. These stories are not fairytales, par the ones never published, the ones unfit for children. Is it truth or imagination? Even I couldn‘t answer that. Your first story is being told, pin your ears back and listen. . .