Young Writers Society

(Sorry in advance for the weird line spacing...I BLAME IT ON YAHOO! )

1903

The third day of each December could be considered a

miniature Apocalypse for the shop-keepers with the

misfortune enough to own a store within the confines

of the Lincoln Haymarket, a nice-enough place to be

most of the time, but on that specific day, it was

Hell on Earth. The clerks hired to work on that day

would grip the edge of their counter with white

knuckles and close their eyes, breathing slowly, or

would simply flip the sign around to ‘Closed’, run out

the door, and hide in the dark corners of their

houses, awaiting the news that they’d lost their jobs

and would not be expected to return to work the next

morning.

December 3rd, it is recorded, was the day the

McLaughlins, a quite respectable couple living on a

quite respectable farm, emptied the old tin coffee can

on the highest kitchen shelf onto their mattress,

divided the bills and coins into sets of eight,

pressed the money into each of their children’s hands

and shooed them out the door, telling them to have a

nice time and be back by dark.

The children, armed with around two or three dollars

each- depending on how old they were- ran down the

mile-long stretch of dust road toward Lincoln, feet

pounding and hearts thumping until they reached their

destination. Once arrived in the Haymarket, the

children would ravage every shelf in every shop,

searching for the right molded-lead soldier, the right

knot of licorice or the right doll with perfect blonde

tresses and eyes that opened and closed. Once they had

found the right item, they would slap the bills onto

the counter, take their purchase by the fist and

sprint to the next shop, trying to get to as many

different stores as they could before the others got

there and found even better things to buy.

There was one girl, however, who lagged quite a bit

behind the others in the rush toward the city, holding

the pages of a book open with a few fingers in front

of her face, humming a little and walking slowly so

she could read as she traveled.

She was a girl of thirteen, with curly brown hair that

could be stylish if she glossed it and a small waist

that could be considered enviable if she wore a

corset, but as you can imagine, a small city in the

middle of no-where with only an abandoned salt mine to

claim as its own, fashion was not at the top of the

list of concerns for its people.

Nonetheless, the girl remained unnoticed, nose

seemingly glued to the inner binding of her book,

trudging toward the shops, sometimes stumbling on

rocks and things that appeared in the middle of the

road and once trodding over an especially stupid

rabbit that had opted to remain on the path and had

not noticed the girl coming along.

Nearly an hour and a half later, when the girl arrived

in the Haymarket, she slipped the novel under her arm

and walked toward the bookstore, where she usually

spent most of her money except for a dime she kept

saved for an ice-cream cone from Suzanne’s Frosty

Parlor at the end of her shopping.

The bell tinkled ominously through the place as she

stepped quietly through the door, letting the musty

smell of paper and dust fill her nostrils and make her

smile just a little bit.

She combed the shelves, running her fingers over the

spines so she could pick out titles she knew or

sounded interesting to her.

At the very last spot on the very bottom rack on the

very last shelf she searched through, she came upon a

book that had obviously not been touched for a very,

very long time, so long that a layer of dust about a

centimeter thick coated the top of its pages.

Sneezing a few times, she blew the dust away from the

book and watched it float in a cloud toward the floor, then wet

her thumb in her mouth and wiped the grime away from the cover.

She slowly read the title aloud under her breath: Blood-Sucking Lemur-gons, Howling Meow-Cats, and Other Creatures of the Night.

She flipped through the pages at a furious pace, just enough to catch the titles at the top of the page, including How To Protect Against Yetis, How To Cure an Eccentric Coughing Pig Bite, and How To Lure Your Aye-Aye Into a Carriage.

Except for the headings, the pages were entirely blank.

She smiled a little more broadly as she propped the books up on the counter and paid the boy behind the desk, inwardly plotting ways to put to use her new book.