The Story Untold

Enjoy this original short story!

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Words contain power. They always have.

How many times have you read something and gotten flustered, angered, scared... titillated? Amazing, the

power ink on paper has over us. Lines and dots forming powerful emotions that can raise armies and capture

hearts. Only the fool says words contain no power.

If words contain power, then what of the thousands of repositories scattered throughout the world? Libraries,

then, are the sentinels and protectors of vast amounts of power handed on from age to age. Each book contains

within it whole worlds begging to be plumbed. Yet not every book gets such a privilege. Some are not gobbled

up eagerly by adoring hands. Some books go day by day, year by yearuntouched, unnoticed, and unread. Their

worlds slip into obscurity and eventually die. The very ink seems to fade from the page.

Yet something curious happens to a select few of these books. Some refuse to die. Some turn their intrinsic

power inward in a desperate, last-ditch effort to survive. They think and think, drawing power deeper and

deeper into themselves until, one daylike a star going supernovaall that potential explodes outward, then

recedes and condenses into something new and dangerous. It becomes pure potential: a story reborn, desperate

to suck in the next reader.

This has been known for centuries by those who guard the books. Perhaps more would know of this literary

evolution if it werent so rare. But one librarian was about to get a crash course in these rare books.

By all accounts, Sarah was a bright, inquisitive young woman. She had long loved the written word, rewarded

with trips to the bookstore for every accomplishmentgood report cards, perfect attendance, and so on. There

she roamed the aisles with giddy reverence, picking out book after book. It didnt matter if it was classics or

contemporary fiction, biographies or memoirsno story could satiate her. She wanted them all. She wanted to

be a living library.

So imagine her surprise when her local library put out a call for volunteers.

Please, Dad, please! It wont interfere with my schooling, and its only after hours!

Sarah clutched the flyer advertising the position like a drowning person clinging to a life preserver. Her eyes

were big, round, and pleading.

Her father, David, was a pragmatic man. Emotions tended not to work on himunless they came from his baby

girl.

I dont know, Sarah. Its a lot of time. Can you really handle your schoolwork as well?

Yes, Daddy! she cooed. I could always do homework there after my shift and, well...

Time to shift to logic.

And well what? he asked.

Well, I can rent as many books as I want! You wont have to buy me so many anymore!

Her father sighed, almost relieved at the thought of fewer bookstore visits. His shoulders sagged, and he

relented.

Fine. You can volunteer, he conceded.

After an agonizing day of tenth grade, Sarah rushed home, showered, changed, and devoured a quick

sandwich.

Bye, Dad! she said, kissing his cheek as she flew out the door in a blur. If it were a cartoon, she would have

left a puff of smoke and a silhouette in the doorway.

She hopped on her bike, letting the cool breeze comb through her hair as she pedaled to the library.

The sun was beginning to dip behind the mountains that surrounded the valley she called home. She pulled up

to the library and took it in.

It was the oldest building in town. Some of the older residents claimed the town was built around itbut that

was surely just folklore. The front was lined with decaying Doric columns flanking large wooden doors.

Though grand in scale, it was clearly weathered. Sarah eyed it thoughtfully.

Maybe the old folks are onto something, she muttered.

She pulled open the heavy door and stepped inside. Immediately, the scent of old parchment and expired tea

greeted her. At the center of the foyer stood a circular desk. An old, hawkish woman crouched over it, peering

at something Sarah couldnt quite see.

She approached cautiously, the atmosphere demanding silence.

Um... hello, Im

Are you here for the volunteer position? the woman croaked.

Y-yes, I

Name! she barked.

Sarah Marie Jensen, she said, forcing the words out.

Sarah didnt like her. Not one bit.

Youre early, the woman said, not unkindly.

I couldnt wait, Sarah replied, smiling nervously.

The womans smile was thin, paper-flat. Thats what they all say.

There was something ancient in her tone, something practiced. As if this conversation had been repeated

many, many times.

She glanced at a piece of paperSarahs application. Presumably the only one. Perhaps others had been smarter

and stayed away.

The woman looked Sarah over, eyes sharp, invasive, as if trying to peer into her very mind. Finally, she

nodded.

Im Mrs. Carian. Head Librarian. Tell me, girl, can you do as you're told?

Sarah looked into her eyescold, heavy, like something from the Arctic. There was a sense that once, long ago,

Mrs. Carian had read something that could not be unread.

Yes.

Mrs. Carian led Sarah on a winding tour. Entire wings were devoted to every subject imaginable, yet many

areas were closed for repairs. A freight elevator was boarded up. The basement, she was told, was strictly

off-limits.

Finally, Mrs. Carian gestured to a cart of unshelved books.

If you really want to be helpful, take these to the old catalog room. Last door on the left, past the microfiche

machines.

Sarah didnt mind. She wheeled the cart down the empty hallway, past flickering bulbs and ancient filing

cabinets.

The door was ajar. She turned to ask Mrs. Carian if this was the right roombut the librarian was gone.

Shrugging, Sarah entered. The room seemed... older than the rest of the library. If the town was built around

the library, perhaps the library was built around this room.

Chuckling at the thought, she wheeled the cart into the corner. Then she saw it.

Dust floated like spores in the light of a desk lamp. At the center of the table sat a bookopen, spine cracked,

ink bleeding at the edges. No cover. No title. Pages yellowed... and breathing.

Waitbreathing?

Sarah blinked. Of course it wasnt. That would be ridiculous.

Still, she stepped closer.

The pages were blank. But the thing felt alive. Long, slow... like death rattles. No, it had to be ventilation or an

air duct. Thats all.

Click.

She turned quickly. The door had closed. She rushed to it and turned the knob. Nothing.

Hello? Mrs. Carian? she called, pounding on the wood.

Then she heard it. The scratch of pen on parchment.

She was not alone.

Adrenaline surged through her veins, freezing her limbs. She turned slowly, praying to see someone. Anyone.

No one. Only the book.

She crept forward.

She entered the forgotten room, heart alight with wonder, unaware the story had already begun.

More words appeared.

She tried to run, but her body froze in place.

Sarah couldnt move. Panic set in.

Sarah became like the countless others before her. In reading, she became.

Her eyes her traitorous eyes kept reading. She could move nothing else.

The pages flipped, faster and faster, ink flowing across them like a wound opening. Scenes from her life. Her

childhood. Her conversation with her father. Then moments she hadn’t yet lived.

She tried to scream. Nothing came out.

Sarah opened the book.

She hadn’t.

Sarah read the first sentence.

She hadn’t!

Sarah turned the page.

The world dissolved.

The sun had now fully set.

The door creaked open.

Mrs. Carian entered, glancing around the room. Seeing no one but the book, she approached it carefully.

It pulsed, rhythmically, satisfied.

She stared at it for a long moment, then closed it. On the front, now etched in curling black ink:

SARAH MARIE JENSEN

With a sigh, she shuffled back to the circulation desk.

“I wonder how the other Librarians are doing…” she mused to herslef.

“Time to print another flyer.”

VOLUNTEER POSITION OPEN= INQUIRE AT FRONT DESK