Waste Books Novels & Stories

She hadn't expected the authorities to collect books from survivors, sort them, then offer them for trade again. With one disaster after another making even three meals a day uncertain, books were little more than firewood to the poorest survivors. Nobody would waste precious credits or supplies on them, so hardly any of them had sold. That worked out perfectly for Nicole. There were books on physics, math, chemistry, technology, biology, and all kinds of academic subjects, along with relationship magazines, novels in every genre, and even paintings. They were cheap, too. Nicole kept checking boxes and circling items with her pen. Once the apartments were sold, all of it would be hers.

My fingers hovered over spines until I found what I wanted: a thick book bound in dark leather, the title stamped in faded gold. WOLF TRADITIONS & BONDS: A GUIDE FOR COUNCIL AND HOUSEHOLDS I lifted it off the shelf and stared at it for a full five seconds, because no part of me enjoyed the fact that this existed like it was a homeowner’s association handbook. I set it on the table and opened it. The first page had a handwritten warning in neat block script: THIS TEXT IS FOR PACK USE. DO NOT REMOVE FROM LIBRARY. Beneath it, someone had scribbled, smaller:

Lucas asks. I start walking, jogging my memory, “There is an entire section on wolfsbane. I never read that much into it but we can start there.” There are quite a lot of books that we have to go through what as hours pass, we find nothing of importance. “This is useless,” Lucas growls, throwing a books aside. “Don’t throw them.” He just scowls and picks it up. I turn my attention back to the book in my hands and a line catches my attention.

"We shouldn't" Nuella said, With a shrug Claude returned it then continued looking through the shelves. The library was smaller than she had imagined, with only a few shelves left standing. The rest lay in ruins, books strewn about in piles of decay. The air was thick with the scent of must and mold, and she could see cobwebs hanging from the ceiling. As Nuella walked over to one of the shelves and picked up a book, it crumbled to pieces and fell at her feet. Claude winced, feeling a twinge of sadness at the loss of such an ancient piece of knowledge.

"Can I come in?" With a sigh, he stepped aside. "Make it quick. I don't have time for any discussion that would upset me this morning." I didn't bother to say anything to that. Once inside, I scanned the piles of books scattered around his desk, old leather-bound books, journals with pages falling out, handwritten notes in looping script. I had never seen Frank desk untidy. He was a stupidly clean freak. "You still have those books on werewolves, right? The ones about... uh, rogues?"

Rearranging the books, I found a small brown book wedged behind them, but it didn’t have a title or seem to belong to the library. While putting the library books up, I took the unmarked book and opened the cover to see if something was inside to help me figure out where the book went. The cover had nothing, so I flipped the page and saw it was a journal. The handwriting looked familiar as if I had seen it before. Flipping the pages, I skimmed the contents and saw that it discussed microchips. It was also about changed wolves. I took the book to the loft to find out if it was related to the same thing I wanted to create.

I noticed all the different categories and different sections the books were placed in. With ease, Agatha found each book and I held out my arms as she gathered the books into them. Some of the titles were written in languages I couldn’t read, and some were just… absurd. ‘Werebear physiology’, ‘Werebear magic rituals’, ‘Werebear sexua’-nope not reading it. Just shuffle forward behind the nice kind lady. She stacked a few books labeled ‘Werebear history’ and ‘Werebear proper stamina management’, into my arms, before leading me somewhere else.

The book is the visibility of what was already there. Don wrote in his journal that night. He wrote: The third book is complete. Eighteen years of the arrangement. Three books. The three books are not three separate arguments. The three books are one argument in three movements. The Inside Account: what the accumulation produced in me. The Ground Keeps: what the accumulation produced in the estate. The Emergent World: what the accumulation produced between us.

And lastly, the books in this section look even older than the ones that Rhode was looking at. I take a closer look at the shelves to see that most of the so-called books are mostly loose papers that are poorly bound. Some look so ancient I worry that the papers will crumble into dust if I touch them. But I pull out a few anyway, sneezing my head off in the process and trying to find something about the silly legend of Udbhava.

He really had mastered the art of swallowing his anger rather than letting out even a single word. Listening to his footsteps fade, I suddenly realized Jared was right. It was people like Knox Ferris—arrogant and overbearing—who really seemed alive. Once upon a time, I had been like that too. But that version of me no longer existed. I slowly raised my hands, staring at my pale, slender fingers in a daze. Ten years ago, these hands had been smooth and full, gripping reins and vaulting over walls. Now, they only bore the marks of holding a pen.