I call my store Someone Else's Books because my mentor, a man named Nelson Kendrick, owned a store by that name. He believed that the used books in his inventory were never really his.
"They belonged to other people," he told me, "and I keep them until they belong to someone else. These are always someone else's books I'm caring for."
People think owning a used bookstore is romantic. Let me assure you: it isn’t. You spend your days sneezing from dust mites, explaining to people why their “collector’s edition” John Grisham paperback is worth less than a gas station burrito, and hauling boxes of Danielle Steele hardbacks that multiply like rabbits in the wild.
Now, add aliens.
Yes, you heard me right. Somewhere between stocking the poetry shelf and arguing with a customer about the difference between sci-fi and fantasy, I wound up in the business of protecting humanity from an invasive race of lizard bullies called Herpezoids who can’t stand reading. They are literally afraid of books. It's a thing with them. I've seen their phobia in action. A whole story can be told as to why and how this bibliophobia came to be and persists, but flashing a pulp fiction paperback at a Herpezoid is the equivalent of a crucifix to a vampire. It's why you should always carry a book.
When a Herpezoid sees a book
There are no men in black. I don’t have a black suit, I don’t wear sunglasses at night, and my “high-tech weapon” is called a Multiblaster, which sounds like a discount cleaning product. Its batteries sometimes fail me. Most days, I’d rather be eating nachos than saving the planet. But then again, if I don’t, who will? That's why I didn't want to involve my book club in this nonsense. Imagine a room full of people armed with casseroles, wine, and bizarre opinions about the latest cozy mystery. These are everyday people with jobs and mortgages. Now imagine handing them alien tech. We’re either the Earth’s last hope or its biggest liability.
We're not this cool.
Still, maybe there’s something poetic about it. A bunch of nobodies sitting around a stack of paperbacks, turning the tide of intergalactic conquest. Books have always been powerful. And book lovers know this. Maybe that's where we get our courage to face these Herpezoids.
But if you come into my store asking for a first edition Stephen King and then try to pay me in coupons, I’m letting the aliens take you.
— Kevin Raulston
Again, we're not men in black and we don't rap. We're not that cool.
Day 1: Welcome to Tinsel Bluff Holly Winters had three rules for surviving December: Don’t check the bank account before coffee. Don’t cry in front of customers. And never under any circumstances let the Christmas lights remind you of better years. Tinsel Bluff’s air smelled like snow and cinnamon, but at Winters’ Trees & Treats, the scent was more of pine sap, burnt sugar cookies, and mild dread. The “SAVE THE FARM!” banner stretched across the barn had begun to sag in the middle, giving the impression that even the slogan was tired of trying. Its message seemed to be more about somehow getting through the holidays than motivating others. Holly stood behind the counter of the small farm stand, blowing warmth into her hands as she watched her son, Max, chase a half-deflated Santa across the lot. The thing flopped through the snow like a wounded seal, and Max whooped after it in his puffy jacket, unbothered by the cold or the reality that the f...
Chapter 16: Krampusnacht Approaches Snow came early that night. Thick, heavy flakes fell straight down without drifting, as if the sky were simply giving up and dumping everything it had left. Holly stood at the window long after Max had gone to bed, watching the storm settle over the ridge. The farmhouse creaked under the cold. The wind hummed low and strange against the eaves. Something about it set her teeth on edge. She tried to shake it off. Storms happened. Weather happened. But this felt deliberate. As though December itself had decided to lean in close and whisper. Max hadn’t told her about the dreams yet. Not all of them. Just that morning, he had mentioned something about a “red forest,” the trees glowing like embers, the snow falling upward instead of down. She’d assumed it was the result of too much cocoa and not enough sleep. But later, as she tucked him in, he held her hand tighter than usual. “Mom… if someone comes for me on Christmas… would you be scared?” She...
Chapter 8 — The Trader The office building sat three blocks off the financial district like it’s trying not to be noticed. No logo on the door. No receptionist. Just a brushed steel plaque that read E. L. Kessler – Risk Advisory in letters so modest they almost apologize for existing. People who deal in probabilities don’t advertise. They wait. The hallway smelled faintly of printer toner and old ledgers. I knocked once and the door opened before my knuckles hit it a second time. The man inside looked exactly like what happens when a calculator grows a spine. Mid-fifties. Trim beard. Blue shirt pressed so precisely it could cut paper. The office behind him was immaculate—desk clear except for a single monitor displaying a field of numbers that crawl across the screen like disciplined ants. No family photos or diplomas displayed. Only framed spreadsheets and graphs. “You must be Mr. Sharp,” he said, confirming a scheduled arrival in the ledger of his day. “You must be the man who...
Comments
Post a Comment