Of Books And Barometers

• Alex Williams, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2013

“Oh good golly gracious!”

Armies of bottles. The home to antidotes and poisons from times past, stained cobalt and emerald. Fantastically curvaceous women, dancing in the low, orange light of afternoon.

“Victor Travis Mott, you imbecile!”

Sheets of paper flutter to the ground like bleached, Autumn leaves.

“... Something wrong?”

“You clouted clotpole!”

Motty; a man more of an antique that anything stashed inside his place of business, with a grin and a whimsical nature that never truly faded from childhood.

And he’s ostensibly found the notice from the bank.

“You silly, old fart!”

He softens.

“You can watch the shop, can’t you?”

The answer is stolen from Mycal’s lips by the silhouette of the flustered and frazzled man, already trotting past the front window.

Little old man, indeed.

The bank had sent three notices that she was aware of. But nothing seems to fade from Motty’s attention more than a date. A deadline.

The volumes stand to attention. Hardcover soldiers, dressed in splendid tunics of maroon and cerulean with golden titles that gleam like medallions shined to brilliance.

Victor Mott is perchance the worst salesman to ever exist. And yet, he’s perfect. The seventy-something shopkeeper never takes the time to organize his files, properly record his sales, or follow up with customers.

But that’s the sheer brilliance of him.

Hidden clocks tick and tock to each other in ironic impatience, like greying business men with clients on their tails.

The stranger slices through the open door. The bell is resigned in its cry.

Forced pleasantries.

“Good morning, is there any-?”

The words ricochet off of him. Insubstantial.
Imperfections are important. The imperfections in diamonds give them value.

Freckles. Lines of age. Receding follicles.
Perfect in their imperfection

But his are different.

They’re gaping cracks.

He demands her attention.

A creased finger dips a slender title from the shelf before it is consumed by the inside of his coat.

Stolen.

The moment falls and shatters against the floorboards. The greatcoat slashes against his ankles like a promise of what to come.

“Excuse me, did you just-?”

His face splinters into a smirk.

Before she can comprehend it, she’s there. Chasing. Feet buffeting the pavement. Her mind plunging into the panic of the moment.

Occasional asthma, she thinks bitterly. A condition that isn’t even determined enough to warrant a proper diagnosis. She struggles against her body’s objections.

God, she loves those books.

He hastens with a certain determination, but yet he integrates with the crowd of business men and unaware shoppers.

She feels like plastic in a crowd of precious metals.

Her chest tightens. Within moments it’s an hourglass filling with sand.

It’s just...

It’s just a book.

Her mind wheezes in along with her chest.

And she believes it herself. Her feet lag and her arms wither while the eyes of passersby burn holes into her.

But he’s there.

Holding the door to a cab, the book in hand. He’s bristling and agitated.

But smirking.

And waiting for her.