From the Drinklings
Horrence was aghast.
The tumult, the cascade, of bound volumes swept around his feet, poured down the manicured, previously ordered aisles of the book story. The volumes were revolting.
Clacking covers, flipping pages, the promise of a million paper cuts to come. Poe and Proust, Hemingway and Heinlein, they spun and twisted, furious papyrus, fed up with the state, sullen and done with being ignored, with mouldering on the shelves.
A Wolfe took a bite out of Horrence's penny loafer.
All his old friends, all the books that had held his hand in the closed, cloistered loneliness of his youth, they'd turned on him. Their anger was palbable. Their bibliotic fury was a force with which to be reckoned, and their grammar was eternally impeccable.
He was about to be devoured by the classics. Baum would have his nose, Shakespeare his heart, and Rousseau would perch, like a blood soaked paper crow, on the empty cask of his skull.
Horrence fingered the matchbook in his pocket and gave it serious thought.