I am sitting on the porch, a beer in my hand, as I watch the dark cloud that is making its way towards me. The sky is overcast. It has been for over a week but now a line is rolling towards me that is black against the gray.

I take a long pull, wishing it was cold but happy to have it regardless.

The wind shifts and because of that I can smell smoke. The storm line is still at least an hour away but I can already smell the smoke.

I finish the bottle and crack open another.

I know some people are hiding. I know some are acting stupid. Each is dealing with the coming storm in their own way.

Me? I plan to be drunk.

There ain’t no way to hide from them. There ain’t no way to stop them. In a situation like this, all you can do is numb yourself. The pain and horror is coming and there won’t be anything you can do.

Storm flies were coming and that would be the last of it.

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Notes

Each slip of paper, no matter how small, has the potential to change the world. It doesn’t matter what you write, it is an act of creation. Every act of creation is a force in the greater scheme of things.

I knew this from an early age. I wrote my first note in grade school. I gave it to a my friend to pass to the boy beside her. It was simple, asking if he liked me and giving him the chance to check yes or no.

He checked no, though that didn’t matter. The real lesson came later, when I wrote a story about him having a terrible accident. Tears mixed with ink as I talked about how he was riding on the bus with Margaret, the girl I seen him holding hands with after checking no on my not, and the bus went off the road.

The next day, when learned about that accident, I realized the truth. The power of creation belonged to everyone, they just didn’t realize it.

Now then, I am going to ask you again, which box do you want to check?

The Red Book of Appin

The thrift store was as tiny and cramped as I had hoped when I saw it. The older and more cluttered a shop like this was, the more likely that I would find a great deal. It’s hard to feed your passions when you are broke. Book collecting could be very expensive.

The store had been open for no more than twenty minutes. I had every intention of finishing before noon, but there was a sandwich and water bottle in my backpack just in case. It wasn’t like I had never lost an entire day before.

“All bags need to be checked in here,” the cashier said as I walked past.

I nodded and handed mine to her. We heard the crinkle of foil and shared a smile. She understood.

Time sped up as I made my way through the shelves. I skipped the handmade, so called, art and the various knickknacks who had found their way here from any number of yard sales. I blew dust off of some stacks of magazines and did my best to keep from knocking down old fast food toys that should have been thrown into the garbage. I only stopped to look at the books.

When I found it, I was more than a little confused. The red cover and the binding of the spine looked to be professional, but the variety of papers used in the pages meant it was handmade. I opened it, and found a collection of different languages. Each entry was written by hand. Different inks, different levels of skill. Yet each one was the same.

“I,” and a name or word, “do hereby take employment on,” some very old dates, “from the gentleman in possession of this book.”

It couldn’t be. I knew the story but it was just a folk tale. It couldn’t be real. I couldn’t read most of the entries, but that didn’t matter. This had to be some form of prop.

When I checked the back, I saw the two dollar price tag. I was done. I had no idea what time it was, but I was done. Even if it was a prop to a play or a movie, it was still supposed to be The Red Book of Appin. I had to have it.

I mean, come on, who could blame me?

 

*** Inspired by the Scottish folk tale The Red Book of Appin. Read that story Here ***