Some creations live long after the author. In fact, some live longer than the author ever intended.
Arthur came bounding a split second after him, swiftly avoiding the mess, and racing on in the perpetrator’s wake. He rounded the corner only a few moments later, but as Cole rose to his feet, he saw a flicker of light from the other side, and heard sudden whoosh as though all the air had been sucked out of the world. Limping and sore, he moved to the end of the aisle and peered around the edge.
Arthur was huddled against the wall, rocking himself back and forth; murmuring repeatedly the words: “It’s him. It was him!” in a voice tinged with as much madness as it was grief. “Oh my God, I saw it, and it was him!” A few feet away, a lonely pyre slowly died out. The book had been reduced to ashes.
The second copy that Cole set out to find was in the hands of a private collector in San Francisco. He went to the man’s house, in the hills above the bay. Secluded by Redwoods and Oak, it was a peaceful palace that seemed the last place likely to be touched by any foulness. The only thing that threatened the still was the continual roar of the ocean below. Some people were lulled to sleep by the sound, but Cole had never been one of them. Instead, it never failed to put him on edge.
“As I’ve said before, my client is willing to pay top dollar for the book,” he stated as they climbed the stairs toward the elaborate library. “If it is in as good condition as you say, Mr. Bartholomew.”
Gerald Bartholomew huffed, though whether it was from the exertion of the climb or the suggestion that the book would be of inferior quality, Cole could not say which. He stopped at the door to the library and looked at the other man. As though in suspicion, he raised bushy grey eyebrows that made Cole think of an owl.
“So you say,” replied the man. “$45,000? You know the book is worth no more than 30, tops.” He stroked the equally fuzzy fur on his chin. “What makes your client offer so much more?”
“Just really wants a copy, I suppose.” Cole shrugged. “Are we going to have a deal, or not?”
“That depends… on who you represent.” Bartholomew returned.
Welcome to Authspot, the spot for creative writing.
Read some stories and poems, and be sure to subscribe to our feed!
