[PICK] Fictional Eternity

[variableman]

Synopsis: An aging sci-fi editor gets what he wants, and quite a bit more...
by Michael Athey



So this is how it begins... for you, at least. Not so for me, which is exactly the problem. God, what a fix! It enrages me all the more as I think about it further, but it seems to be to no avail. Still, I can't help being furious, and I suppose that's just part of my nature. And that, too, is part of the problem, or perhaps part of the moral "in retrospect". Hell, I don't even know what that means anymore! It's so simple, really, but altogether confusing at the same time...but I'm being ambiguous. I'll pose the problem to you more simply, so we can be on the same page. I think you'll find it to be annoyingly familiar:

If you had an opportunity to have a wish granted, would you take it? That's almost a rhetorical question, really. I mean, who wouldn't jump at the opportunity? Any wish, any desire, anything conceivable possibility made real by the simple contract of words? Sure! Why not? How often do we get the opportunity? Never, right?

Well, almost right. After all, I got the opportunity, and now I have to live with the consequences for the rest of my existence, which looks to be a very, very long time...

The essential problem is that we can't ever fully know what we're wishing for -- not completely, anyway. The wish is just a symptom, an inkling of a deeper desire, but no one can realize that completely until the words are spoken and the wish is fulfilled...

Except in my case.

There's another moral for you. Just another tired, miserable moral. I thought perhaps that my wish would free me from such concerns, but instead I find them surrounding me at all sides, unshakeable and undying, just like myself. Now if I had the opportunity I would make today disappear, wipe it from the records, and go on with my miserable, finite existence.

But it's too late for that. Anyway, here's how it begins:



So here I am, at the south end of what passes for the downtown strip of this little college town I inhabit, utilizing my day off from the magazine to pursue my favorite hobby of hunting down used books. The day is not ideal for the venture, though, with bruised and bloated afternoon clouds casting the street in a uniform gray. My mood, as well, takes on a tinge of that shade as I hustle along the sidewalk, muttering under my breath. I can't even have nice weather on my day off, it seems...

The downtown area functions as a hangout haven for the droving townies and college dropouts as well. Their numbers clutter both sides of the street, squatting at the outdoor cafes to suck down mochas and spout existentialism, strutting along in small groups to window shop all day without spending a cent, a few merely sitting on the curbs with dented musical instruments, strumming and singing tuneless songs. The noise of them is a senseless din that I swim through as I pass shop after shop, blinders on, regarding no one with any scrutiny.

I turn up the lapel of my coat as I reach a crosswalk and jog to the other side of the street, the breeze picking up slightly as I approach my only destination of the day: The Dusty Bookshelf. It's the only place in town you can get decent books at reasonable prices. Its long tan awning is a nice relief from the growing afternoon gales as I pass the front window. I thrust out one arm to open the front door while clutching at my coat with the other and rush in, sighing calmly once inside the store's muted, low-lit surroundings.

My eyes scan the vast displays and bookshelves surrounding the interior. The tall wooden shelves teem with used volumes from any and all eras, precariously organized into a semblance of alphabetical order. Within this cluttered arena sits the front checkout stand, overloaded with clumsily piled-up towers of newly acquired items that dwarf the smarmy little brown-haired co-ed at the register.

She doesn't even look up as I enter, her attentions focused only on the foul-smelling bowl of herbal swill she's slurping with a plastic spoon, cut off from the rest of the world within her paperback fortress. I don't offer a greeting as I skim by, knowing she would ignore the gesture anyway.

Brushing away my conditioned disgust, I make a beeline for the Sci-fi section. It's the smallest section of all, of course, situated oh-so-conveniently at the back of the store, out of sight, crammed in between "romance" and "how-to", as though undeserving to even be in sight of the classic literatures...or even the Harlequin romances for that matter. Even so, meager hopes for newfound treasures consume me as my eyes fall on the humble brood of fading paperbacks leaning on the shelves...

My nose lets out an indifferent snort as I survey the selections. I either own them already or want nothing to do with them. Mainstream fictions from only the past decade for the most part, all by relative unknowns. Hordes of sword-slinging fantasies and "A robot ate my neighbor" novels, not to mention the usual War of the Worlds rip-offs, the only difference amongst them being the color of the interlopers' skins or how many limbs the extraterrestrial guerrillas are sporting.

"The usual," I mutter, shaking my head. But it only makes sense. After all, it's a used bookstore; it's where you go to get rid of books more often than where you go to buy them. The college kids love the place, trading texts for whatever booze cash their insipid paperbacks can glean. Their pseudo-intellectual tastes of the week fester on the shelves, left to rot like discarded refuse. The people who previously owned them must have thought they were useful at some point, now only a bunch of unwanted corpses with broken spines is all I see...

Sighing, I turn away from the shelves quickly and make my way back toward the front, sidestepping a wiry poet-in-training-for-sure sporting a turtleneck and a knitted black beanie camped out by the mainstream fiction section reading a copy of --

"Whoa, there!" I say, tugging the hardback out of his manicured palms. "What the Hell is this?!" I slam the book shut, staring at the name on the cover in disbelief as the gangly holier-than-thou clears his throat at me vainly.

"Excuse me," he huffs. "May I have that back, please?"

"Where did you find this?" I ask without looking up.

"That's the only copy," Beanie says, with less than a hint of implication. "It was in Mysteries -- "

"Pig snot!"

"Indeed," he says, adjusting his beanie slightly. "But like they say, finders, keepers. I'd appreciate the book back now."

"Muckery," I mumble, clutching the book tightly as I look past the man toward the checkout counter, my glare affixed on the silly little priss at the cash register. "Dimwitted soup-sucking wreaker of chicanery..."

"Are you listening to me?" Beanie continues, fixing me with a stern gaze.

"I've got half a mind..." I begin to say, ignoring the stilted slick back chattering at me with his hand outstretched expectantly. I simply brush past him, bearing down on the wench at the counter, my eyes glistening with hate.

"Hold on!" the man squeaks from behind, following me closely. "Give me back that book!"

"Question!" I say, waving impatiently as I arrive at the counter. The girl slowly looks up from her steaming bowl of herbs, swallowing deliberately as she rises from her chair and throws me that "What could possibly be so important as to disturb my lunch?" smile.

"Yes, sir?" she asks.

"What's this?" I say, dangling the book closer to her round face.

"That's my book!" Beanie insists from behind me.

"Shut up!" I bark, forcing the man back a few steps as I fix my crosshairs back on the clerk. "Well?"

"You want to buy that?" she offers.

"I'm buying that!" Beanie says.

"Actually, I should be the one buying it," I spit. "That is, since I was the one who put a request in for it!"

"You did?" she asks.

"Yeeessss," I say. "Over two months ago!"

"He took that book right out of my hands!" Beanie cut in.

"Is that true, sir?" she says, crossing her arms.

"Aw, he'll get it back!" I snort. "Just tell me why I wasn't called when it arrived so I can scream at you accordingly!"

"We should've called you if you actually put in a request--"

"Of course I did! Why else would I be upset at you right now?!"

"You're being irrational?" Beanie offers.

"Hey, go fetch!" I say, tossing the book off into the Self Help section so suddenly it makes Beanie leap.

"You jerk!" he cries, skittering away to reclaim his lost prize.

"And you," I continue, my forefinger pointing directly into the clerk's skull, only inches away from her knob of a nose. "Explain!"

"I'm looking in the files..." she says, shaking her head as her hands flip methodically through a worn-out Rolodex beside the cash register. "Nope. There's no request in here for that author from anyone in the last six months."

"Bull!" I say, trying to ignore the overwhelming sense of everyone in the shop suddenly staring in my direction. I guess folks aren't so interested in Hemingway or Hobbes or Hawthorne when they can get some homegrown hullabaloo to watch instead, the unimaginative toads. "I know I put in that request!"

"Well, I can't find it," the clerk says flatly. "You could put in the request again, if you want."

"Why? So you can lose it again?"

Someone chuckles at that remark from the Reference section. I look up, catching sight of the source -- a tottering, ancient little man dressed in brown twill, leaning comfortably against a dusty stack of encyclopedias. The tufts of white cotton that long ago replaced his hair shiver gaily with his every giggle. One hand is clutching a black satchel hanging from one of his shoulders to keep it from falling off, he's giggling so hard.

"Something funny, friend?" I say, glowering at him.

"Stop being a bully!" Beanie says, which garners a few utterances of agreement from the lookers-on. I sense the momentum beginning to shift more drastically as he adds, "Why don't you just let it go?"

"Alright," I say, sighing as I turn back to the clerk. "I'll put the request in... again."

The clerk complies wordlessly, slapping one of the little green Rolodex files onto the counter along with a pen as she smirks at me. "What author was it, sir?"

I slap my forehead, groaning. I want to shove the Rolodex down her throat, having only shown her the name a few moments previously. She scribbles quickly as I rattle it off to her.

"And what does she write?" she asks. I can't believe she has to ask this as well, so I just stare back while she taps the pen on the counter impatiently. "Horror? Mystery? Romance? What?"

"Oh, come on!" I blurt finally, my fist thumping against the counter. "You work in a book store, for crying out loud! She's written over forty novels in the last three decades! How can you not know what she writes, you ignoble twit?!"

"You don't have to tolerate that," Beanie chimes in.

"I know," the clerk chirps. "It's okay. I've heard worse."

"You wanna hear worse?!" I blurt threateningly. "I'll give you worse!"

"Calm down, sir. Just tell me what she writes--"

"Science fiction!" I nearly scream. "Sci-ence fic-tion! You know, that genre that all you people consider as crap?! The stuff you just stick back there in the corner as if it were something despicable like pornography or... or cookbooks?!"

People start turning away, bored with the conflagration, except for Beanie, who's taken a personal interest in getting my goat at this point, and that old man in Self Help, his chuckling still rubbing away at my brain in the background.

"Jesus, would you stop laughing already?!"

"Look, sir," the clerk interrupts. "I've got your request and I'm filing it away. See?" She turns slowly, almost theatrically, and places the request form back in the Rolodex, finishing the act with a spokesmodel flourish of her hands. "There it goes, safe and sound. You witnessed it. We'll call you if we get anything in. Now I think you should leave before you make any more of an ass of yourself."

"That'd be tough," Beanie notes, holding the book to his chest like a crucifix as I whirl on him. "Don't you touch me."

"I wouldn't dare bruise a pretty thing like you, sweetheart." A small mock lunge in his direction sends him lurching back, knocking over one of the towers of books at the counter. His indignant blubberings fill the room as I storm toward the front door to leave--

"Sir?"

Reluctantly, my body turns in response to the clerk's voice. She's holding the little green request form in one of her hands.

"How about you not come back at all?" she says, crushing the card into a tiny round wad, then dropping it to the floor. Somebody starts clapping. I turn and force the front door open with a sharp kick just below the handle and walk back out into the harsh afternoon wind.

"Unbelievable," I mutter, pulling my coat closer about me as my body leans into the wind. "Indignant, despicable snobs." The sidewalk scrolls by my eyes as I walk down the street, head down, directionless. My face is contorted into a nasty grimace, I'm not even thinking about my next destination anymore. The inspiration to pursue my hobby is gone. "Ruined my day, disrespecting little blood clots."

They can't understand my anger, I surmise, but how could they? They don't know what it is like to live out your life in squalor, in despair... to suddenly find yourself middle-aged and bitter, your body decaying along with the dreams of your youth.

No, they couldn't understand that; they still had their youth and their dreams, so they can't stomach the opposite...

I curse out loud to myself. What the Hell do they know? They don't understand that the creature comforts are all I have left! That since I once aspired to be a writer, had my hopes dashed with the avalanche of rejection letters that my efforts amassed, and was left to take on the meager position of associate editor at a small press magazine, all I had left was my love for fiction. Just that and nothing else for these past several decades. No other loves and no other aspirations, my one solace being my ever-growing library of books.

But all they can see is this angry, angry old man...

I make my way toward the crosswalk, my thumb stabbing the button for the stoplight repeatedly as cars continue to crawl by. The trail back to my car slowly comes back to me as small raindrops begin to tap against my balding skull.

"Perfect," I say, looking up into the overcast sky as the WALK signal triggers to life. The rain starts coming down harder as I trudge across the street, the perfect punctuation mark to my gradually worsening afternoon--

"Hey, mister guy!"

It's someone calling from behind me, halting my progress for a moment. Only a moment, though. Probably one of the spectators from the store, I surmise, coming to take pot shots at me as I run off with my tail between my legs. I ignore it and trudge on.

"Hold, please!" the voice chirps again. "We can be talking?"

The voice is odd, animated yet outmoded, but I can't place the accent. Is it German? Romanian? French? I can't tell which, but I already have a notion as to "who". My guess is correct as I turn around. The little cotton-haired man from the shop, huddled beneath an enormous blue umbrella, smiles back at me from the sidewalk.

"What do you want?" I snap.

"You're getting the rain on you!" the old man croaks, smiling.

"I know." I turn away without further comment, strolling away briskly. Then I hear the man's footfalls resume from behind me, following at a distance.

"You were having problems in there, yeah?"

His voice sounds closer. My pace quickens. I hear the little man's footsteps matching pace with mine as I turn the corner at the end of the block.

"Embarrassing, yeah?" the man crackles, still huffing along behind me. "No more books there to buy for you? So off away you hurry? To where, then? Please, your pace is fast, I cannot follow!"

"That's the point!" I snap without looking back. "Leave me alone, old man!"

"For why?" He's up to my side now, matching his strides with mine. For his age he's rather energetic, I can't help noticing. "You are lost in your endeavors? That man with the black dome on his head and your book, together! It was meant for you, hey? He is taking it away? You are mad! You were waiting, and it arrives without notice for only him to steal from you while you watch! The two of them together, his hands caressing her cover, forbidden love for you! You are very mad, indeed! I too would have emotions as such!"

I'm smiling now in spite of myself and stop in mid-stride, my hand on the man's tiny shoulder. "Look, thanks for the interest and all, but I'm done making you laugh for the day, okay?"

"For that, I show my sorry for you. Not funny to you, I know it now. But the book, indeed, was your special--"

"I'm sure I'll get along without it," I say, giving his shoulder a light pat as I begin to walk away. "I've gotta go. Good-bye."

"More books to buy?" he calls to me.

"Not today," I half-yell as I continue walking.

"But if you could have it, you would?"

That makes me stop. I turn around again, scowling at him. "What did you say?"

"That book!" he says, grinning as he trundles up to me. His right hand starts digging through the black satchel. "You can have! I have! See?" Then his arm shoots triumphantly out of the bag's recesses, prize in hand, raised above his head like a hunter's prize. Instead of such a trophy, though, it's a book -- the book from the store, in fact.

"What?" I snatch it out of his hands violently. The old man doesn't even flinch, just giggles as he regards my reaction. "How did you get this? That guy, Beanie..."

"No, not his!" he says. "Mine! Can be yours!"

"He didn't argue with you over it?"

"Not his! Mine is the proper having! Like so many!"

"Oh, your own copy?" The man's head bobs up and down like a cartoon character. "Huh. You were just carrying this with you?" More head bobbing. "What an odd coincidence."

"Yes, lucky!"

My eyes narrow, regarding the little smiling man. He's still nodding his head like a doll with a broken spring in its neck. I shake my own with a chuckle. "Okay. How much do you want for it?"

"No," he says, snatching the book from me and stuffing it back into his satchel. "Not your desire, truly."

"What?! But you just said I could have it!"

"Of course! But your wanting is more, yeah? Not just for this book! For other want!"

I can't help but just stare at the guy. The more talking he does, the less sense he makes. "What do you mean?" I ask.

"Come!" he says as he grabs my sleeve and starts pulling me down the street. "We go get your want!"

"What are you doing?"

"Come and follow! Your want I have!"

"What? Why are you pulling me?"

"To shop!" the man titters, still yanking at my sleeve.

"I'm done shopping. Let go of me, please."

"No! Not to shop! To go to shop of mine! Come and follow!"

I struggle with him for a few moments, but it seems pointless; his grip is like a vise. My feet cumbersomely manage to fall in step with his as we progress down the street, nearly cheek to cheek underneath that ridiculously large umbrella, weaving around swelling puddles of rain and sprinting stragglers caught in the storm unprepared. All the while the little old man is chatting my ear off, endlessly pushing the sale.

"It's wonderful, my shop! Has anything! Full of wants! You want, I got! Great! Great! I will do the help with you to find it! Not so far to go, you know, to get there? Before we know it, there is here! And there we find your very want!"

"Okay, I get it."

"Yes! Soon enough, you get it! I will help! I am helpful as the clerk! I don't eat the soup at the counter! Attentive and helpful to customers, always! Customers are friends, yeah? I will be a friend to you! Friends help friends!"

And on he goes, weaving the weirdest tapestry of words in that Pidgin English of his as we continue down the street. It starts giving me a headache to listen to as we pass shop after shop, block after block. Eventually I just shut off my ears and stare at the sidewalk, watching our feet march in sync to one another, for who knows how long, until suddenly the old man squeezes my arm and jerks us both to a stop.

"Here!" he declares, thrusting out his hand. I look up to where he's pointing. The building is fat and squat, a ramshackle construction barely held together by bricks and plaster, the yellow paint faded and cracking, as though the place has existed for at least a century. No sign, no awning, no street address is visible...

"What's the name of your shop?"

"My shop! Nice, yeah?"

"Um... yeah. What do you call it?"

"I don't call it! I own! If I called, would it answer?" He has a good laugh at that one. "Probably not, yeah?"

I give up asking as I look around at the buildings adjacent. They appear equally aged, but unfamiliar. The rest of the street is devoid of people. Because of the storm, I'm guessing. I can't even make out the street sign at the end of the block; the rain is coming down like a thick sheet of iron pellets. I'm wishing I'd paid more attention during the walk. "Where are we?" I ask.

"Nearby," the man replies, fishing in his pockets. A large bundle of keys on a silver ring appears in his hands a few seconds later. "Which is the one, which is the one...oh yes!" His gnarled little fingers pick out a long black key amongst the bundle, shoving it into the keyhole beneath the worn brass knob of the front door. Which doesn't even seem necessary -- the door looks about ready to fall off its hinges already.

"Look," I say, somewhat apprehensive. "You don't have to open your store just on my account..."

"No trouble, friend!" he replies, tugging me through the door as it whines open on its worn hinges. "Come on, then. Out of the rain to be dry. I will turn on the lights."

The air inside smells of mildew and dust, the windows coated with a thick brown film, blocking out the light from the street. I stumble around a bit in the darkness as the old man disappears to somewhere in the back of the building, humming a strange tune to himself. I walk a few more feet. My leg suddenly runs into something small and prickly, sending a lance of pain up my shin.

"Ow! Jeez!" I say, hobbling away a foot or two as my head hits something heavy and metallic. "Christ!"

"Be still!" the old man's voice calls. "I hit the lights now!"

I hear a low hum as the overhead lamps spring to life, flooding the entire room with a dim glow. I look around nearby to see my attackers as I carefully rub my shin. A stuffed porcupine is staring up at me from the floor near my leg. A battered Centurion's shield hangs on the wall by my head.

The old man returns to my side, chuckling. "You like the pork-pine?"

"No," I say, rubbing my shin again.

"Me neither!" the old man pipes, stabbing his folded umbrella into the animal's spine. "Die, pork-pine!" He jabs at the thing about ten more times before he finally stops and giggles at me. "Not really killing, you know? Already dead!"

"Yeah, I caught that."

"It's the umbrella stand! Two for the one price! I am the maker!"

"Uh-huh, neat-o," I say, backing up a few steps. "Look, I should probably get going now..."

"Not being silly! Come! Look 'round, look 'round, more neat-o's to be finding. I wait at the counter for you. You have the asking, I do the telling!"

"But didn't you say you had, um, my special want or something?"

"Yes," the man replies, winking. "You must find!"

"Couldn't you just show me?"

"Not in my realm of possibility, friend. You find!"

Shaking my head, I turn to survey the rest of the store, and immediately my jaw drops. The old man wasn't kidding. Anything and everything, from tires to tarot cards, records to rat traps, weapons to window chimes, hanging from the walls, nearly falling over from the shelves, towering above me from every direction, forming a gigantic maze of knick-knacks and collectibles I can hardly even begin to navigate. As I pass through one of the narrow rows of shelves I begin to wonder if I'll get lost if I venture too far in...

"Hey!" I half-yell into the air, almost knocking over an aquarium full of tennis rackets. "Where are the books?"

"Keep looking! You'll find!"

I continue around a dusty forest of muskets with lampshades, through a hulking brigade of grimy refrigerators and then, lo and behold, I come upon the bookshelves. Hundreds of shelves, thousands of books, stretching even farther back into the store than it would seem possible. And then, arriving at the first bookcase, my eyes grow wider...

"My God!" I say. "This is amazing!" Every book is one that I've always wanted to own but could never find, by every author, from every genre. The names almost seem to appear as quickly as I think of them as I scan the shelves -- every author from A to Z, every single one ever published, in every edition. My head is reeling as I nab as many as I can carry, stumbling as quickly as I can back to the front, dropping a few on the way but assuring myself that I'll retrieve them on the second, or third, or fourth trip!

The old man is not smiling as I arrive at the counter.

"Better call for a truck!" I say, beaming. "I'm gonna have a heavy load!" The old man's face is almost angry now, throwing me a disgusted look. "What's the matter?"

"You haven't found your one special want," he says, crossing his arms.

"Not just one! Many!" I say, noticing that I'm starting to speak like him. "Many wants! I want 'em all! All those books back there! I'll buy 'em! Just name the price, man! I'll pay!"

"No," he says, sighing.

"What?"

"Just one want."

"Just one?! Come on! I can afford it!" I scratch my chin for a moment. "Well, maybe I can do it in installments or something. A proofreader doesn't live the high life, you know, but we could work out something..."

"No!" he says, pounding the counter. Not exactly being as friendly or helpful as he promised, I can't help noticing. "Think! Think about what you want!"

And I'm staring again. It's become a bad habit with this guy. He just glares back, those blue eyes of his twinkling away. I lift my eyes to the ceiling, my hands on my hips, assuming the "thinking" pose for a few seconds before I say, "Um, I dunno."

His gaze softens as he leans forward on the counter and folds his hands in front of him in a scholarly fashion. "Just think. Why? What is this love of yours, for the books? More pointing to truth, why the science fiction? Why the fantasy? What, for you, is it? What is the importance that you place on it? Think! Think back before now, before what you became, before anger, before gray hairs and curses, before your wrinkles and the pains of growing. Think. Think, think, think..."

It's strange, as he's talking I can almost see what he's leading me toward. And as I close my eyes, almost hypnotized by his words, I think back to childhood afternoons, vibrant rays of sunlight streaking through the window of my bedroom, the latest copies of the pulps lying in my youthful, sweaty mitts, splayed all over my bed, my eyes locked five inches from the pages, drinking in the words of the greats...the stories of the Golden Age, sweeping me away from reality as only they could do...I'm on a space ship, screaming toward an undiscovered planet...I'm in a mysterious forest, full of mythical beasts lurking unseen amongst the shadowy trees with only my scimitar to protect me...I'm far away, so very far away from the world, the normal world that I've grown to despise, the world that I can never escape...

"Yes," I say, regarding the old man plaintively. "I remember. The stories, I loved them when I was a kid. And I still do."

"Almost correct. Yours was not just love, yeah? You read the stories, but you also wanted...?"

"To write them, I guess... but I wasn't any good at it..."

"Not close enough. You were wanting the stories more, yes? More than just to be writing..."

My head nods dumbly as I recall the images. Space ships, dragons, demons, and more, but the pictures are far away in my mind, dancing and spinning just out of reach. I want to see them better. I want to hear them, smell them, touch them...

The answer appears to me then, as simple as they come. A childish smile spreads across my lips.

"I wanted to be in the stories... a story of my own..."

"Yes!" the old man cries, clapping his hands. "Now you have it! You know what is your want! Escaping into the story! Away from the world! That is it!"

"Yeah, right," I say, chuckling. "As if that could ever happen."

"But if being it could, you would have?"

I roll my eyes, shrugging. "Yeah, sure. I suppose..."

"Then you have!" the old man says, laughing with glee. "I give! Done and done!"

My smile shrivels to a smirk. "Oh, really? Wow. Great. Fantastic. Do you have that sacked up for me already, or is it hiding somewhere? Is it next to the pile of novelty bumper stickers over there, or is it underneath that box of whoopee cushions? Jeez Louise!" I start buttoning up my coat as I head toward the door. "Thanks for nothing, you old coot. I'll come back sometime for those books, maybe once you've gotten off your medication or something. I'm outta here."

"But you already have it!" he cries, tugging at my sleeve as I exit. "Look 'round, look 'round! Your story! Not the world anymore! You must know by now! Think! Think of this place! Have you once been being here, all your years in town that you live? To this shop of mine? A shop without name? No! Not ever! The shop was never being here 'til I brought you with me to it! The gate for you it is! Between there and here! Before you are knowing, there is no longer, only here being! I bring you!"

I shake my head, trying to shake off his words, but the way he's looking at me sends a growing doubt creeping up my skull. "What in the world are you talking about? You're nuts!"

I turn again to leave, but then the door, apparently on its own volition, suddenly slams shut in front of me. My hand tries the knob, but it's like trying to turn a rusted bolt. I keep trying to turn it anyway as I hear the old man break into shrill cackles.

"Hey!" I yell, whirling around. "What the hell is... Jesus!"

"I think no," says the old man, except he's not the old man anymore. His -- or its, more appropriately -- skin is an odd shade of green, his ears are large and pointed at the tips, and his hair... well, actually everything else about him is the same, besides his body having shrunk down to being less than three feet tall. "This Jesus person," he continues, "I am not being."

I freak out, backing away from the creature until I realize that I'm about to ram into the Centurion shield hanging behind me at the exact same time that my skull does just exactly that. I hear more giggles as bright stars blanket my eyes.

"Calm!" the little man titters. "No more bruises you need!"

"What...?" I begin to say, trembling slightly as I gawk at the weird little creature the old man has shriveled into. He winks at me, laughing at the expression of fear on my face. I finally find my voice again as my hands fly up in the air. "What the hell is going on?! Let me out of here, you...thing!"

"Not can be in the doing," the creature states flatly. "First I'm for coming tidy with you. You know what I am being?"

"You are being not real!" I blubber, covering my eyes. "And I am being crazy! To therapy I will be going!"

But even though I'm denying it, I know what it is. Or I have a sense, at least. After all, I'd read plenty of fables, but I just don't want to believe it. Even so, I know what this creature is going to say as the words fall from its lips...

"I give wants," it says, ignoring my babble. "Wishes, humans call. My job to have, my enjoyment for the giving--"

"Prescription drugs I will be taking!" I interrupt, trembling.

"Please," the creature snaps, hands on hips. "Listen to me? You have your wish! Your world! Yours! I give as a friend! You are happy now, yeah? No more for to be angry!"

"Oh, I'm angry!" I yell, collecting myself as I jerk at the frozen doorknob frantically. "More angry than ever! This is nuts! I've gone totally nuts!" My fists hammer on the door relentlessly, but to no avail; it's not budging. "You freak! Unlock this door!"

"For what good?" the creature asks. "To return? It cannot be! You have taken your want! That gate is closed! There is no returning! Only your world now, because you wish! I show my sorry, but that is the going's way!"

I grab at the little green man, holding him in the air, our faces nose-to-nose. "Take it back! Take back the wish! I want out of here!" I let out a shriek as the little man wriggles out of my grip and kicks my sore shin.

"You are served right," it says, crossing its arms. "You are wrong in yelling at friends. I give you the want, and you yell. Improper! You would think rather to give the thank-yous and hugs. The least I'm expecting for your wishing granted!"

"How is this my wish?!" I scream, still hobbling a bit. "Being stuck in a run-down psycho shop with a green pointy-eared dwarf?! I never wished that!"

"Stuck?" it asks, scowling up at me. "How are you meaning?"

"Well..." I make an exaggerated gesture at the door, to which the little creature merely scoffs. "You've already made it abundantly clear that you're not opening the door, unless..." My mind suddenly perks up. "Unless there's a back door!" I start moving toward the maze, but the little guy kicks me in the shin again, hard enough to send me sprawling to the floor.

"No back door," it says. "But not stuck, either."

"Stop kicking me!" I howl, tears sneaking into the ridges of my eyes. "What do you mean we're not stuck?! There's no way out! My God, I can't breathe!" My head knocks against the floor in rhythm to my whimpers. "I'm trapped, I'm trapped, I'm trapped!"

"But already I explain!" it says, patting my head. "Not that world anymore! This shop, not this shop! A gate! Many doors, but not any going back!" It kneels beside me and smiles. "You are seeing?" I shake my head. It offers its hand to me, helping me to my feet. "Come, then. I will show!" It sprints off into the maze of shelves, waving me on. "Come and follow! You will be seeing!"

He disappears ahead of me as I limp along, wiping the tears from my face. The overhead lights begin to flicker on and off, casting the shop into sudden shadows. I can hear a strange noise, a low steady hum of some sort, emanating from the rear of the store. Vibrations in the worn wooden floors tickle up my feet as the store blacks out completely.

"Hey!" I yell. "What's going on? I can't see!"

"My voice!" the creature pipes, barely audible above the growing vibrations, sending the whole building into shivers. "Follow! You will find!"

My hand reaches out, finding a shelf for balance, as I inch along through the blackness. The vibrations have swelled to a low rumbling now. I feel the brush of a soft wind whistling past my cheek as I round a corner and continue on. Down another row and I catch a hint of light, coming from somewhere near where the books had been...

Brighter now, as the rumbling steadies itself to a constant. I call out and the creature answers, closer now, as I weave through the old refrigerators, the wind blowing harder, the odd light glowing a strange tinge of blue, brighter, brighter, and brighter, until I finally see it. I finally reach the source...

The little man is standing before it, hopping and clapping as he sees me approach, his form blue in the light as well, as I meet his side, staring at the gate...

It's like a wide cylinder of light, stretching vertically from the floor to the ceiling. But there is no floor or ceiling within that cylinder. It merely stretches on, from Heaven to Hades as far as I can tell. It is rotating slowly, or has the appearance of it, as I pick out hundreds and hundreds of small, darker blue rectangles floating in circles within it. They appear as strands of DNA, nearly, dancing in swift circular patterns, hypnotic to my eyes as they dance around and around...

I move closer, examining the gate in utter awe, and I see what the rectangles are. They aren't just rectangles at all; they're books, all hovering about within that gate, their covers sparkling within that magical field of blue. I look back to the creature, who winks at me, motioning me onward.

"This is amazing," I say, smiling. "This is the gate?"

The creature nods. "Your world! You go in!"

"But where does it go?" I ask, a little frightened. "Where will it take me?" The creature giggles, holding his arms out wide as he shrugs.

"You find out!" it says happily. "You go in! You choose! Go!"

Cautiously I step closer to the cylinder. My leg prods its edge, finding it soft, like rushing water. I turn back to the creature again, still fearful as something occurs to me. "Have I died? Is that what this is?" I motion toward the cylinder. "Is this the gate... is this the entrance to...?"

"Most not assuredly!" the creature responds. "You live! You do not die! Your life eternal!" It ambles up to me, giving me a small push. "Not fear you should have! Go in! Go in and choose!"

And with one quick lunge I'm inside it, floating, slowly spinning, the wind singing unfamiliar chords into my ears as the books dance about me. I look out toward the little man, unsure. It makes a motion with its hands, grabbing something out of the air. I understand, catching one of the books as it floats past. I squint at it before letting it go, searching for another as it passes. I scowl, noticing that none of them have titles. I defer to the little man again in confusion.

He makes motions with his hands again. Open it, he's trying to say. I do, slowly at first, as the light that pours from the pages staggers my eyes with its beauty. It flows out from the book in all directions, spreading across my face. I laugh as it covers me entirely in its glow, pulling me slowly in. I have time to look back at the little man one last time, mouthing my thanks to him, and I barely catch the wink of his eye as I succumb to the pull of the book and disappear...

The cylinder of blue dissipates, along with the hundreds of swirling tomes, leaving only the book that I chose to clatter against the dusty floor of the shop, with myself inside it. The little green man stoops to pick it up, regarding the words on the page plaintively as he opens it and addresses me.

"Your want," I barely hear him say. "And your prison, you angry, angry old man..."

It's only once I'm inside that I truly understand what has taken place. The little green man lied, that's all there is to it. I am trapped, confined within the perimeters of prose -- these words you are reading -- and there is no escape. I understand what he means by eternity, my entire self encapsulated within the confines of the story that I'm telling you. And I can safely say that it enrages me to no end... literally!

I was lured in, plain and simple. He read my thoughts like a book, just like you are doing now, and gave me what I asked for. But since you're reading it, Hell, I suppose I can attribute some of its literary success to myself, which is something I couldn't accomplish on my own, but... no, that just makes me madder! But what can I do about it? I'm stuck here, and that's that.

But you aren't, so follow my advice: Avoid those little old men giggling in the Reference section, because...well, just avoid them, that's all I'm saying. If you don't, and you decide to listen to them anyway, just don't agree to anything! Oh yes, and if there's such a person as he who has staked his claim to being the "author" of this story, find him and give him a stiff kick in the groin for me. I don't know who he is -- some no-name, to be sure -- but I'm sure he was an accomplice to all this in some way...

You can still avoid this trap. You have Time on your side. Do it for me, because Time no longer has meaning for me here. So now, as Time still has meaning for you, I must say good-bye, as the story has been told and you, dear reader, much inevitably reach...