Collections of Embellished Fictions, Philosophies, and Poetry

Mr. Linden's Library

January 23. 2020.

He had warned her about the book. Now it was too late.

He stood over Adeline's body, the book's pages frayed and were scattered on the floor, on the wall, in pleasant disarray. She looked as if she was stone, and the vines connected all the scattered papers, wrapping around her frozen stature like an ancient, forgotten monument. He could see clearly she would not wake; she would never wake. The blood on her pillows stood out in their scarlet glamour. The crimson warmth gushed from a wound in her neck (oh, how fitting!) and spilled out between her greyed lips, open as if in the middle of pronouncing a word. Oh, she was reading with such fervor, such enthusiasm that the book decided to give her spare time. Finish the word, it whispered. Finish the word, you pretty doll, and join your place with the others. She must have been willing if she did not struggle, the vines wrapped around her alabaster throat, cutting into her flesh and squeezing out her life. Now she was set in stone, as all stories should be.