Sunday, 22 September 2013

The Lie (Part Five)

He’d looked everywhere. 
When it came to books, Bill was like Smaug the dragon and the glittering jewels. 
He remembered every book and if one should go missing Bill would not be able to rest. 
Sometimes he’d scan the shelf six or seven times before the book in question would finally reveal itself. 
But this one wouldn’t play the game. The book was gone and Bill couldn’t think why. 
He wanted it for its poems. 
They were not particularly good poems.
In truth, the writer wasn’t really a poet.
But the book was everything, trying to forget about the lie, that Bill needed right now. 
He liked the way that the words had been reproduced with a facsimile of old fashioned pen strokes rather than the hard edges of typed font. 
He remembered the photo on the cover. A portrait of the author wearing a corduroy cap and a greying beard that would soon be white. 

Bill badly needed the book. 
It might be the only one he’d ever write.



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