Terry stepped into the Barnes & Noble bookstore, hair splattered with rain. The lady behind the counter pursed her lips as his jacket dripped water a little too close to her precious books for comfort, but Terry didn't notice. He was too busy staring at the rows and rows of books: fairytales, novels, anthologies and autobiographies, tomes, grimoires and manuals. He was more at home here that at his own house, which had a bookshelf against every wall and was situated next to a public library.
As he meandered through the aisles, glancing at covers and spines, he was suddenly reminded of something a friend had told him last week. She had said that bookstores were - what was it, exactly? - "graveyards of trees, their bodies mutilated and defiled with archaic runes". Looking at the leatherbound pages before him, he could not have disagreed with her more. These were sacred halls of knowledge, where most of humanity's collective information were sealed within paper and ink, silently waiting for its readers to unlock its secrets. There could never be any macabre feeling with bookstores.
Something caught his eye as he strode past the theology section. The aisle was dimmed, its overhanging lightbulb dead. Terry could just make up a pile of fallen books, toppled over in a jumble by the large glass window. Outside, the rain was hammering on the pane, winds rushing as though trying to force entry.
Terry could never stand the mistreatment of books, and stepped forward immediately to shelve the fallen bibles. As his foot entered the pool of darkness however, lightning suddenly flashed in the window, giving him a fright. But the sudden flash of light had also illuminated a small object lying on top of the pile of books.
Reaching down, Terry picked it up. Instantly, he felt something ripple across his skin, though there was no wind in this airconditioned bookstroe. It felt like a rush of power or knowledge, which emanated from the small pouch which fit in the palm of his hand. It was oddly shaped: pentagonal, made of old leather, with a gold lining around its edges. Each corner was connected with each other corner with another thin gold line, forming a star; and in the centre of the smaller pentagon was inscribed a circle.
Terry was confused by the strange feeling he had upon picking up the pouch. Giving in to temptation, he pulled on the drawstring and flipped it open. He was instantly struck by a feeling so powerful that he could only describe as divine illumination, and slammed the leathers shut again. The pentagonal pouch was no pouch, but a book, its pages yellowing with age. And the voice which spoke in Terry's head and heart told him that this was no ordinary book.
He clutched it to his chest protectively, and whispered to nobody in particular: "It's the secret. It's the God's Secret."
Inspired by a dream I had a couple of weeks back, which I unfortunately had no time to put down in words since then. I distinctly remember having a small book-like thing, and the words "god secret" were quite obvious in my head. I have been having more dreams which I can remember lately (which I blame the army and its screwing up of my normal sleep pattern for), and I guess it's an indication of how awesomely my subconscious is influencing (or being influenced by) my imagination.
Not meant for mortal eyes,
The Edna Man
Tuesday, July 06, 2010
So I wanted to write something today about something that happened on Saturday but unfortunately events which transpired today makes it impossible (or at least, highly dangerous) for me to attempt to do so. I also had a number of highly creative ideas which will now never see the light of day due to the reinforcement of certain legislations which I ambiguously refer to. Perhaps if I lived in a different society, things might be better. Then again, I can't be arrested for having ideas.
Or maybe I can.
The Edna Man
Or maybe I can.
The Edna Man
Posted by Uncle Edna at 9:57 pm