#FictionFriday: The Cure.

“No one must know about the cure, do you understand? No one.” She said it with so much conviction that I didn’t dare to go against her will, which is stupid looking back. I created the formula, I did all the trials and errors day in and day out until it became what she dubbed as The Cure. But, hindsight is always 20/20.

We walk calmly, as if we, no, as if I didn’t just discovered The Cure. Well, to be completely honest, she was walking calmly, I was trying to walk calmly. How do you go about your day as if you didn’t just discover the ultimate truth? There is no way we can ever go back to the way it was supposed to be.

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#FictionFriday: The shop.

The first thing she noticed was the sky, how it turned to a lovely hue of blue but gradually turned into dark grey. Slowly the clouds are congregating, as if they have a meeting to attend high up in the sky. The next come the pitter patter of rain hitting her wind breaker. Slowly she brought out her green umbrella. Standing motionlessly under the rain, she can hear all the droplets of water clearly, she can feel the wind blowing, and most of all she can feel the thunder brewing high above the sky waiting patiently to unleash its sound and light.

Slowly the lights began to flicker, illuminating what once was a crowded street but now empty due to the falling rain. She walked slowly, trying to enjoy the splashing of rain around her, the smell of rain if there is one, the flashes of thunder and the quiet street. The slow walk might have something to do with her anxiety over where she was supposed to be fifteen minutes ago.

There was a shop at the end of the road, and they had a Christmas tree set up, complete with twinkling lights that serves its purpose as fake snow. A Christmas tree on a July? The shopkeeper must have gone mad, she thought to herself. For what other reasons could there be for a shop to set a up a Christmas tree five months before the actual Christmas? And yet she can’t help herself from stopping in front of the shop and just stare at the twinkling lights. She pull out her left hand from under the umbrella and felt the rain had wet her hands. She hoped that the water might have turned into snow soon. A foolish wish, she knew.

The door to the shop was open, she was startled, she lost her balance a bit, she thought she was going to fell on her backside, but a pair of bony hands shoot out and pull her up straight in time.

“Oh, dear me. Did I startled you, young Lady?”

The owner of the bony hands was a lady with an all black clothes, from her immaculate top hat to her pointy boots are black. She cannot decipher how old the lady was. She seemed ancient, but young at the same time too, if she were to judge by the strength of the bony hands that pull her up straight.

“Oh not really, I was just lost in thoughts from staring at your Christmas tree. It’s gorgeous,” she manage to say, “but, why a Christmas tree? Christmas is still quite far away.”

“Oh dear, this is not a Christmas tree. Surely you can see this is not even a pine tree. This, my dear, is the tree of wishes. Each sparkling lights you see here represent people’s deepest wish. When someone wishes for something, strongly wished for something, sometimes, we are alerted of it and we try to locate that person and help them grant their wish,” the Lady was speaking in such a soothing tone to her ears, “I would love to chat with you but I am needed somewhere else. Have a good day, dear.”

She stood there, slowly shaking her head as she watched the Lady walked purposefully followed a black cat. Oh, surely whatever this shop is, the owner and whoever works there have gone mad. Tree of wishes? Whatever happened to this world?

With that thoughts in mind, she drags herself slowly trying to locate her destination. The rain grew harder and she doesn’t feel like walking anymore. She saw a bench, she didn’t care about the wetness of it, she was going to sit on it because she doesn’t feel like walking anymore, and so she sat down.

“I think I’m supposed to find you, clearly you’re the only person wandering around in this deserted street. Everyone else has gone inside a building, either to keep themselves warm or just to keep themselves dry until the rain stop. So, tell me dear, are you the one I’m looking for?”

She was close to screaming when she heard it. She thought a cat was saying those things to her. There was a cat in front of her, looking at her with tilted head. The cat has the shiniest black fur she had ever seen. Strangely the fur doesn’t seem to be wet. Thankfully, she realised that it wasn’t the cat that was talking to her, it was the Lady from the shop with the Christmas tree. She was not going to call that tree of wishes, she is not mad, yet.

“I’m sorry, what?” Her question came out like a squeaky mouse if ever a squeaky mouse can talk.

As the Lady took up the seat next to her, she said, “Well, I did tell you about how we go out and try to help people when they have wishes to be granted. We’re like a genie but without the hassle of living in a bottle and wait until some poor soul rub their grimy hands on the bottle. I was told to find a girl who would be wandering around the street, I was told she would joining us in training. Since there’s no one here except for the both of us, and Jimmy the Cat here, I assume you’re the one that I need to found.”

“Again, I’m sorry, what?”

“Oh for goodness sake, mate. I don’t get paid enough to go around and be inspirational and shit and whatever. Look, Are you or are you not Emily Henderson? And do you or do you not wish to join the Fidelia Greenwod Witchcraft?”

“Oh yes. To both questions, I mean.”

“Well, let’s get a move on then. We were waiting for you. I’m a witch but it doesn’t mean my clothes can’t get wet and honestly, the water from this bench is seeping up my knickers already.”

 

Take a rain check, perhaps?

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“I’m not afraid to die, I’m just saving it for a rainy day,” he said as he plopped down on the couch looking smug for successfully making his fifteenth trials of cold-pressed juice. “Think about it, what’s to be afraid about death anyway? Now, if we’re talking about dying, that I am dead afraid.”

I hate it when he turns into this person, the kind that just rambles on and on about death or anything that comes near the topic itself. Why can’t he chose a more cheery topic? Look outside. Look at all the flowers blooming, the rabbits running around doing what rabbits are doing, and yet talk about death is what he decided to do. Why am I even friend with this person?

“Why? Are we talking about literal rainy day or is there some kind of hidden meaning, somewhere? And what about dying?”

“It is not death, but dying, which is terrible. Do you know who said that? Henry Fielding said that. Death is the end. If death ever comes knocking on your door, sweep you off your feet, well, Son, that’s pretty much it. But, dying? Gosh. Who knows how long you’re there, you know? Dying, I mean. It ain’t going to be pretty. You could be dying in pain, whilst shitting down your pants with drool dribbling down your mouth. Gosh, tell me you’re afraid of that.”

How he managed to scarred my mental image for the next two weeks while drinking his ever so disgusting green cold-pressed juice, I have no idea. Again, why am I friend with this person?

“Well, dying doesn’t always mean that one has to be sick and be incredibly disgusting like your description, and thank you for that horrible mental image, by the way.”

“Okay, another scenario. You could be dying on the middle of the street, after a car crashed on you. No one heard your scream for help. And there you are, slowly dying with your guts spilling from your stomach.”

What is wrong with this person? How is he so obsessed with these gruesome descriptions? Whilst drinking no less. Disgusting! How am I still friend with this person?

“Mate, seriously, you have got to stop describing things like that! Some of us are trying to actually keep down their lunch here. I haven’t put down ‘vomit today’s lunch at 2.30 PM because my friend is an incredible jerk who likes to talk about vomit inducing topic‘ in my agenda.”

“Son, no need to get your knickers in a twist. Alright, I’ll refrain from the vomit inducing topic. But, back to what I was saying, death is fine, dying is a no go for me. As for your other question, it’s romantic isn’t it? To die on a rainy day, with raindrops pattering on your window, you let out your last strangled breath. How romantic.”

Romantic? What in the bleeding hell has this jerk-face been drinking? How in the world is death on a rainy day romantic? No, scratch that. How is death romantic? Honestly, I really need to know why am I still friend with this person.

“You know what? I’m not continuing this bloody conversation. It’s a beautiful day outside. I am not staying in this bleak room talking about death, vomit inducing topic, romantic death, or whatever sick and twisted topics you have up your sleeve. Nope. Not having it. Not today. Not any other day. I’m out. I am going to bask under the sun because I am just that kind of cheery person who refuse to spend this beautiful day talking about death.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Am I sure about what?”

“About being a cheery person?”

“Well, yes of course. Unlike you, I am planning to go out right about now.”

“And for what, may I ask?”

“What do you mean for what? For sunbathing, of course, or whatever people do under the blazing sun.”

“Ah, because you’re secretly suicidal. Son, unless you’re planning to die a gruesome death and risk yourself turning into ash and have some stray cat piss on your ash, I suggest you move your agenda to ‘sunbathing slash suicide attempt number god knows what‘ to somewhere around foggy day.”

“And why would I do that? And whatever do you mean about suicide?”

“Son, we’ve been vampires for hundreds of years. Get it inside your thick skull that vampires and sun don’t go together.”

Ah, right. I’m friend with this jerk-face because we’re two peas in a pod, scouring this earthly prison for fresh blood, whilst keeping tabs on the finest things in life can offer.

Work in fiction inspired by the Dialogue Prompt from PROMPTUARIUM.

The last librarian on earth.

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You would think that being the last librarian on Earth, I would have been more famous, but who am I kidding? How is it even possible I don’t even know, does it even matter anyway? I am the last librarian in this godforsaken world.

Probably there was an apocalypse that wiped out human species and leaving just a small number of people with peculiar but clearly useless jobs to fend for themselves in this barren life we called earth, or what was left of it. Alas, it was not the apocalypse that brought me the title of the last librarian on earth. Hmm, was it some sort of virus outbreak? Am I living in a walking dead kind of world? For some really odd reasons, the virus attack human and animals alike, turning them into flesh eating creature, and yet I was not attack by the virus, leaving me as the last librarian on earth. Again, that was not the case.

The case being as simple as technology advancement going out of control. Oh, you think that’s not possible? But scenarios like an apocalypse or weird zombie virus are possible? Oh, I weep for humanity.

So, here’s what happened. One day I woke up to go to work, much like the rest of my days before. I tried, and spectacularly failed might I add, to tame my ridiculously curly hair. Picked out the most vintage sundress that I own and rode my also vintage bike to my own personal sanctuary, the town’s library. You would think that working in a library would be fun and unique, right? No? Right, thought I’d might entice you to think otherwise. Of course working in a library is boring, who am I kidding?

No, really, I’m not kidding. All day and every day, all I ever do is just sit and sip my tea. You’d think I’d be going around rows upon rows of bookshelves telling people to lower their voices lest they disturb the other people, or that I’m busy stacking up books to its proper shelves, or that I’m tied up trying to call people and remind them that their books are overdue, or maybe I’m simply busy making calls to donors who might want to donate their books to the library or maybe money to renovate the library. Alas, that was never my job. I mean, it did said so, albeit vaguely, in my job descriptions, but who would I’s be screaming at if there never was a visitor to the library?

I’ve been working for the library for five years, and in the five years I’ve been here, I can use up all of my finger, both hands and toes, to count the number of visitors that came here. Sure, during the summer or if spring didn’t bring its monsoon, people would stop by and asked me, “Do you know where the (insert generic tourist attractions) is?” Soon as I answered their bloody repetitive questions, off they went, so obviously I can’t count them as a visitor to the library, right?

What do you expect from a small town library? Enough books about the town’s history, tables here and there, a barely functioning computer here and there also, and well that’s the bare minimum. Now, imagine having that sad excuse of a library to compete with HDTV, highly advanced phones and computers, not to mention tablets? Who would spend their free time to lounge around in a dusty and mouldy library, when they could lounge around anywhere in the world with the world itself at the tip of their fingers?

And so more and more libraries decide to close itself, turned the place into a warehouse camouflaged as a time capsule to remind people of what once was. And so there were librarians no more. What good is a librarian without a library? So next thing you know, more and more people stopped being a librarian and would take up jobs that had something to do with these technological advancement; repair person, content advisor, and other fancy names to call oneself when all one would do is just sit around in front of a screen, thinking of ways to keep other people locked up to their screens too.

So, there you have it. That is how I became the last librarian on earth. No apocalypse. No virus outbreak. Just a simple technological advancement that got out of hand. Well, maybe not so simple. But, what do you know? All you need to know is that you are glued to your screen of your choice, be it a phone, a computer, a laptop, or a tablet, and you’re reading my story, so all you can do is to believe. For all you know, I am just a curly haired librarian who has an affinity for everything vintage that spends her day just sitting and sipping tea in my small town library. You don’t need to know that maybe, just a little bit maybe, it’s not the technological advancement that made me the last librarian on earth, but maybe that was cause by a murderer running around all over the world hacking off librarian because the murderer is a crazy psycho who wants the exclusive title of the last remaining librarian in the world.

Just. A. Little. Bit. Maybe.

But, you won’t know for sure, now would you?

Yours truly, the last librarian on earth.

Work in fiction inspired by the character bank from PROMPTUARIUM.

 

Dear Comrade Elvis.

Dear Comrade Elvis. As I am writing this letter to you, the rain is falling. I thought to myself, what a good ambience to sleep tonight. As I thought about it, I thought about you. I’m wondering is it raining where you are right now. If it does, is it raining hard? If it is raining hard, are you feeling cold because of it? I hope your thick fur will keep you warm. The more I thought about you, the more my mind went back to last week.

Did you remember the trip we took last week? As I am struggling with the traffic and how not to crash the gigantic car, and then I heard your voice. You were bored, I presume. As another red light popped up, I look to my left and I saw you staring back at me. I can’t remember when was the last time you had properly looked at me. I knew you liked my Brother more than me, but more than anything, I wish you wouldn’t hate me for the vet visits that I’ve been taking you to since last month.

Oh dear, the rain here is getting harder. I hope it’s not raining where you are. Anyway, back to last week. I remember my heart felt like someone had taken hold of it and crushed it when I saw your pleading eyes. I don’t know what it meant. It could mean that you’re bored and you want me to set you free from your carrier so you can roam around freely in the car, or it could mean that you don’t want another vet visit. Was it the latter, Elvis? Because if it is, I don’t know if I can give you that.

You’re older now. You are much more fragile than years before. Anything could set you off and cause you sickness. I can’t risk that. I need to make sure that you are always on your prime condition; even if it means you hating me for the vet visit.

Did you remember what I asked you that day? What I had told you? The one thing I have not yet tell to any living soul (until today, if there is someone reading this post)? I told you that I am not afraid of death. Death is nothing but the end of a journey. That being said, I am a tad bit afraid of the process of dying. But, death itself does not scares me. Everyone dies and not everyone lives, that’s what people said, right? I guess the thing that scares me about death is if happened to someone else, to someone I care for deeply. And maybe, just maybe, the thing that scares people about death is if it happens to someone else.

You’re my best friend, Elvis. I don’t do much about our relationship, but I care for you deeply. And if ever death comes between us, I will be torn apart and it would take years to piece me back together, because my best friend/my companion/my comrade/my most trusted fellow which is you is something that can’t be replaced easily. You and the rest of my cats are my best comrades, the best I ever had. And that concludes this letter. This should have been posted last night, but there was a power outage last night, so, yeah.

I’ll see you next week, Evis.

A super late letter to Elvis in response to The Daily Post writing prompt, Companion.