Why would someone send him a letter? And why would someone just leave it on his desk? No stamp so it must have been hand delivered, so it more than likely was from someone at work.
He held the envelope for a while before opening it. He examined the handwriting t(more)o see if it gave any clues. But seeing as he communicated with all of his work colleagues by email he had nothing to compare it to. Not that it would have helped really. With only the three words 'Read This Please' written on it, there wasn't a lot to go on.
He decided that the letter could only mean one of two things. One was that he had a secret admirer and they wanted to remain anonymous. He liked this idea but he also didn't hold out much hope of it. He knew that he wasn't the most attractive of guys and working in a dead end job in his mid thirties, he couldn't imagine he was much of a catch for the office hotties. Even the thought of one of the office hotties looking his way made him chuckle. It also filled him with fear. He knew that if one of them even deigned to talk to him, it would be because they lost a bet.
So the alternative was more likely. It was something bad. He had pissed someone off or his personal hygiene was being called into question. But again why leave a letter? Why not let HR deal with it?
Looking at the writing again he decided that the author was female, which raised his hopes.
His hand trailed along the ancient bindings of the books, his fingers tracing the fabric and leather that had been held by countless hands, touched by who knows how many people eager to absorb new information.
With the world now, books were obsolete. The pleasure of being caught(more) up in every paragraph, every page, was swallowed up with instantly downloadable information. Why bother with sitting still and actually use your brain, when you can glance over a tag and have the data instantly in your head?
A metallic clicking noise filled his head as he brushed against a particularly ancient book. His sight fizzled and cracked, and words flashed up when he closed his eyes.
ReAAD THiss PppleASE
The font was so corrupted he could barely tell what it was supposed to say. It vanished when he lifted his hand away.
Why... why should he read? He slipped the book off of the shelf, searching for the tag, but this book didn't have one.
How was someone even supposed to read?
He flipped the cover open, realized he was holding the book upside down, and looked vaguely across the pages.
maybe you'll be drawn in by the odd patterns in front of you, repetitive words and tidy punctuation and all. maybe you'll decide to gather the cloth into a quilt and curl around it in your sleep. maybe you'll get your nose stuck in(more) the webbing and wonder if you need a swiss knife to cut you out.
maybe you'll catch a whiff of blood while fiddling with the webs and the words and the commas. maybe you'll realize that the expanse of reddish lace you've been folding into cranes and flowers is actually a rearranged circulatory system. maybe you'll recall the signs saying "do not cut" and realize why.
maybe you'll notice the shivering clump of flesh in the center of it all, the little cuts running down its sides, the streams of ink and iron pouring onto dirtied puddles. maybe you'll hear a dump ba dump ba dump. maybe you'll hear your own name in the chaos.
maybe you'll see yours truly, hands hanging from strings, gripping a swiss knife, jabbing the poor little clump(less)
Ryan spotted it first with his new 'Surefire' flashlight, delivered the previous evening. Itching to use it, he waited until the cool days sun began to set and took off through the worn path behind his parents house. The dense but not quite heavy object, black in color had(more) grooves to make the grip easy to hold, and cut through the night like a police spotlight. After 15 minutes, finally reaching his destination, the old paper mill on McCormick Rd. Ryan scanned the empty , gravel parking lot with his flashlight. Moving slowly, but pressing forward, small rocks crunching beneath his loosely worn and now dusty sneakers. The pleasant, evening songs from the birds of his neighborhood are now so faint, that you nearly have to hold your breath in order to hear them. With only the careful steps forward making any sound, Ryan finally reaches the main entrance to the building. They're narrow, chipped, and weathered. A hand rail hangs loosely connected, on the left side. The right side completely removed. More focused on the door and what lies on the other side than the handrails, Ryan proceeds down the narrow passage to the old large gray door, somehow still hanging onto the frame. Brushing some dust from the window, Ryan clears enough dust from the area to peer in. Surprisingly there is nothing different than what you might expect from an old building. "Ugh, my allergies are going to kill me" he says to himself. The room smells of musk, mold, and dust. All is still, quiet, and eerily so. Entering through the opening door, something has caught his eye. Scrawled on the backside of a warped, and yellowed envelope, pinned to the wall with a makeshift pin, the note read "read this please". (less)
As she looked down all she saw was a tattered paper, smeared with black ink. At the top, there was a phrase that simply stated, "read this please." She didn't want to read this. She was afraid of what was written, what the paper might have hidden within its(more) folds.
Yet she gently picked up the paper, almost as if she were afraid it could disappear into thin air at any moment, and she began to read. The page read:
"I'm sorry. I really am. I don't know what to say, all the words have left me. I'm all alone now. I don't like being alone, it causes dark places to arise in my mind. Have you ever experienced that? I wouldn't suggest it. You see the shadows, they lurk and come to life. But that's not the scary part. What's truly frightening is when you look in the mirror and the shadow is looking back at you. That's weird right? People say I'm not normal because of it, but I don't think they understand. Why can't they understand Mommy?"
She couldn't read any further, her tears began falling too fast. The ink became too blurred. And so, three years after she lost her daughter, she lost her words too.(less)