Waste Books Novels & Stories

But on the lower shelf, pushed toward the back like something filed away rather than stored, I found it. No title on the spine. I pulled it free and opened the cover. “ A Complete Record of the Human Management System as Established by the Wolf Council in the Third Year Following the Great War’s Cessation,” I read out loud to myself. Great War. The same war, Mye had mentioned. I carried the book to the chair by the dead fireplace and sat down. The first section was bureaucratic—council minutes, resource allocations, the dry language of people building something terrible and calling it policy. I moved through it quickly, scanning for substance.

Sunrays bathed the entire room as numbers of books trampled on the floor with loud noises. Several books and dozens of papers scattered from the files, which Jim couldn’t understand where to stick those papers back to. He just stuffed them abruptly in those files randomly and put them back from where they dropped.

Some canvases were broken, as if in frustration. Next, I visited the library. Many of the books were old and hopelessly confusing. Most incomprehensible of all were the ritual books, which made up the bulk of his library. There were only a few novels, and judging by the dust, they hadn’t been touched in years. Evidently, Salem was not the sort of man who read for pleasure.

Despite numerous close calls, she shows no signs of passing on any time soon. There but for the grace of God, for sure and for certain. After his admission to the Home, we emptied the store’s back room, filling a dumpster with water-swollen novels, dissolving magazines and comic books. We removed the ruined shelving, ripped up the carpet, did our best to dry things with industrial-strength fans, then locked the place, leaving all the books on the main shelves as they were.

Here’s how the whole damn thing started. *** I wasn’t looking for nothing in particular the day I found The Way of Ah-Tzenul in the recycling dumpster at the Webb County Landfill. Now, don’t get the wrong idea. I ain’t no garbage picker. No, sir. I ain’t one of those fellas who drives round town the night before garbage day, going through junk on the curb. I’m as curious as the next fella, though. When I was dumping our paper into the recycling dumpster at the landfill, something caught my eye. Two cardboard boxes. One of ‘em spilling a mess of pamphlets, papers, and letters stuffed into opened envelopes. The other was stuffed full of old books.

The air is thick with the musty scent of paper and knowledge, and the gentle hum of whispered conversations and rustling pages creates a soothing background noise. The shelves themselves are a marvel, towering above him like sentinels of wisdom. Books of every shape and size are stacked neatly, their covers a riot of colors and fonts, each one beckoning him to explore its contents. The spines of the books seem to whisper secrets, their titles and authors a testament to the vast expanse of human knowledge and creativity.

I shouted again, louder this time, stepping fully into the wrecked library. He barely even glanced at me. His eyes were dark…not angry, not sad…just… empty. Cold. It sent a chill straight down my back. “These books are useless,” he said again, his voice disturbingly calm. “All full of lies. Fairytales. Nonsense meant to keep us soft.” I looked around the room, my chest tightening. Books littered the floor like fallen leaves. Some had been torn right down the middle. Others had been stomped on, crushed under his boots.

The archives looked worse than ever by the next morning. At some point over the last several days, organization had stopped being a priority altogether. Books had spread across nearly every available surface, stacked haphazardly over tables, chairs, floors, and even windowsills whenever someone ran out of room. Open journals sat abandoned beside half-finished notes while candles burned low enough that servants had started quietly replacing them without asking. No one had slept much. No one had really eaten enough either. And everyone was getting tired of reading the same useless warnings written by people who seemed far more interested in sounding dramatic than actually explaining anything.

"Fair enough. You've got guts. In any case, you can take that scrap pile off my hands. I'll sell them to you for five grand." I hastily did the math in my head. That pile could yield at least three tons of reusable material, which would be worth at least 20,000 dollars on the market. "Five grand is too low, Mr. Winters. At least 40% of that pile can be melted down and reused. I'll give you eight grand. In exchange, I want exclusive rights to all your future waste, and I'll buy it at 30% above market rates." He froze for a second before looking at me in a new light. "I can't believe Liam actually let a talent like you slip through his fingers. Alright, eight grand it is. You can start hauling

The study was dark, so I opened the blinds and took in the room. It was very... August. Brown. Black. More black. Not a single color brave enough to survive in here. There was a minibar. I wasn't surprised to find it stocked mostly with expensive whiskey. The bookshelf took up almost an entire wall. Business books. Finance books. Leadership books. Books about making money. Books about keeping money. Books about probably becoming even more unbearable than he already was. Not one novel. Not even a guilty pleasure romance. What a sad life.