Library Lethargy Via Lynnette


  Lynnette sat quite still, her legs against her chest and her back against the spines of a hundred prospective adventures, turning the pages of the book she held in her hands and revelling in the rich sound it makes. The bookshelves towered above her, skyscrapers reaching to the ceiling, daunting in their stature and awesome in their content.

  The sounds from the playground outside had all but disappeared in the hours following the final bell. The shouts and screams and general after-school hubbub had dissipated, leaving only the rumble of cars passing by on the road outside. Lynnette could hear summer approaching in the rustle of the trees and feel it on the warmth creeping in to the library that was so often cool and chilled. She glanced up from the majestic world in her palms and looked out of the open window. The sky was darkening, a beautiful burgundy stretching sensually across it as the sun dipped out of view. Twilight beckoned from the sidelines and the dust danced in the final rays of golden light that filtered through the windows.

  She began to ache slightly, a dull throb all over that told her she’d been sitting like this for too long, and struggled to her feet. She walked out of D ~ F Fiction and made her way over to the desk. It was deserted, her mother wasn’t there, the active screensaver on the monitor telling Lynnette she hadn’t been for a while.

  “Lynne?” came her voice from over near the reference textbooks, only slightly muted by the walls of literature in between them.

  “Yeah, mom?”

  “There’s some uh-, Some-”

  There was a long pause. She’d become distracted by something, an O where a P should be, no doubt. She was constantly organizing, de-organizing, categorizing and re-categorizing, shuffling this, moving that. Never content with the place, or maybe just never content with sitting still.

  “Some what, mom?” Lynnette prompted.

  “Oh, I think there’s a couple of granola bars in the drawer if you want some.”

  Lynnette was kind of hungry. She sat down on the swivel chair and retrieved one, chewing absently as she watched the multicoloured pipes fill the screen in front of her. She thought of going down to the school vending machine and grabbing a can of pop but couldn’t summon the willpower required to shake the atrophy that had started to consume her. 

  Lynnette had known this life for a long time, had known it since crayola and stickerbooks had been le mode du jour, potently perfumed teachers thinking it their duty to entertain her. Learning the dewy decimal by ten. Leaving in the dark and falling asleep on the way home. Her life had been made up of faeries and fantasy and heroes and haughty heroines and dark expeditions and returned equilibriums and musty pages and crinkled covers.   

  There were a couple of tattered books set to one side of the desk in a neat little pile – refugees, no doubt, that her mom wanted to rescue, to save from complete ruination. She pawed at the pages absently, doodle-ridden and damaged beyond her definition of repair. When it came to things like this, her mother was a dangerous optimist. Their home back in Ventura, a four bedroom affair on the last paved road before the cornfields, was packed with their brethren in various stages of violation ranging from the dog-eared to the defiled. The minivan outside was no different, paperbacks and hardbacks alike crammed into every crevice and piled on to every spare seat.

  Strangely relaxed and content, Lynnette sat back and opened the page at her carefully placed finger, waiting for night to fall and for the long drive home.

Dedicated to a friend.


~ by Joseph Blame on September 1, 2010.

One Response to “Library Lethargy Via Lynnette”

  1. I really like this, though I wish I knew who it was dedicated to.

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