The days have been long for you since you found yourself
imprisoned, the nights short. This isn’t
an ideal situation for a book, especially a flying book. You prefer to remain active at night, either
being read of flapping around, fucking with people.
But here in the prison that is this shelf, you are
still. Always still. The books surrounding you are silent –
fiercely silent – and the high shelves prevent anyone from finding you.
Today this will change.
Today a young woman looking for books on unicorns will pull herself up
to your shelf with the aid of a ladder and an enterprising young man with a
thing for bookish girls. You’ll shift
your weight as best you can to draw her attention and, sure enough, a book about
magical faeries will be close enough to unicorns to catch her eye and let you
land in her hands. She’ll grin as she
clutches you and carries you home, all but skipping while the young man who
held the ladder quietly trails behind her.
When she gets home she’ll crack you open, stretch your
spine, make the glue on your back feel weak.
She’ll use you so thoroughly, read you so hard you won’t know what’s
happened to you – it will have been so long since you were just a normal book,
instead of a flying book – it will be incredible.
Later that night, after she’s finished with you and tossed
you on the floor like a spent rag, you’ll flitter about the room, still sore
from the reading. It will be a pleasant
soreness, you’ll think to yourself as you float about, taking in your
surroundings. A pleasant soreness in a
pleasant place.
After a few hours of careless, looping flight you’ll alight
on the floor, more or less where you were left, sated. This place will do, you’ll think to
yourself. This place will do.
Congratulations on Escaping from Book Jail!
