Stories

This is a begining to a story I'm currently obsessing over. It's called Book of Thoughts, and I have a long way to go.

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Janson McNamara’s head ticked toward his left shoulder. “I’d like a book please.”

“Did you bring your other book back, Janson?” the asylum librarian asked.

“Yes ma’am.” Janson handed her a book; The Bourne Supremacy. The librarian liked that series; she’d read them all. She wasn’t sure it was a good choice for a patient in Janson’s condition though, but that wasn’t her decision, now was it? “Ok, Janson, go on in.” She buzzed the door open.

The library was a small room with two small windows. shelves of books lined the walls, and piles of books covered much of the floor. Many of the books were donated by city libraries, or community groups.

A small round table and two chairs allowed the patients a place to read. Two security guards stood on either side of the door.

Janson enjoyed the library; it was quiet and calm in the library. Any time away from his cell was a good time. He was always angry in his cell; full of anger and hate.

He went to the nearest set of shelves and ran his finger along the spines of the books reading title and author with practiced speed. He finished the first shelf and started on the next one down. He’d read most of those books already.

Janson knelt down to start the third shelf but was distracted by a box of books that had been donated recently but had not been shelved yet.

“Five minutes left.” The librarian called into the room.

Janson moaned to himself. His head ticked. He pulled out a handful of books from the box, read the information on the spine, and put them on the floor. Nothing interesting. He pulled more books out. Not interesting.

A small leather book with a blank cover and spine caught his attention. Janson turned the book over in his hands. It was not marked in any way except for the libraries tracking number. Interesting.

Janson took the little book and grabbed another off the top of the pile. It didn’t matter which book he grabbed. His curiosity had been piqued and now he would have to satiate his compulsion. His desire to solve the puzzle. Who wrote the book? What was it about?

Janson slid the books along the counter top under the bars to the librarian. She logged them out with Janson’s cell number. The door was unlocked and he waited for the books to be passed back. He took them and walked briskly toward his cell. His heart raced. He needed to solve the puzzle. What was in the little book? His head ticked. Who wrote it? He ticked again.

Taking a left turn into the hallway leading to his cell pod, he ticked, and ticked again. He was excited! “Slow down, Janson. You know there’s no running allowed.” The asylum worker was not cruel, but firm. Janson hadn’t realized his speed. Excitement clouded his judgment. Discretion? What’s discretion? Solving the puzzle was all that mattered to Janson.

Cell number 914, that is Janson’s home, and has been for nearly 20 years. A small room with a single cot, sink and toilet. A little closet against one wall held all of Janson’s belongings. The cell door clanged shut, but Janson hardly noticed. He was already on his bed fingering the leather book.