Ex Libris: A Short Story Collection

By Marisa Mohi

Readers and writers both love to fall into a good story. But what happens when fiction doesn't stay confined to the pages?

 

After a breakup, Gina engages in some retail therapy at a used bookstore, but one of the novels she brings into her apartment turns out to be more than a ghost story. A reader spends her life escaping her responsibilities with books until she's escaped too far. A traveler finds a paperback left in the airplane seatback pocket, but once she starts reading, she finds she can't leave the story behind.

 

While grieving the loss of her grandmother, a young woman finds that she's been left a collection of journals that write back. Whit wants to recapture the joy of creative writing she felt when she was in college by making a deal that can't be undone. Emily ditches the boyfriend for a midcentury modern writer's desk that is more than a piece of furniture. 

 

A library science graduate student accepts an internship, only to find that the city archives are much more magical (and deadly) than she initially thought. A librarian works her first closing shift, even though she's been warned about the nonfiction section after dark. 

 

With tales of writers, readers, and librarians, Ex Libris is a collection of short stories for people who know there's something supernatural happening when you lose yourself in a good book.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maw See Saw Creative
• Release date: Jun 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201093907

Marisa Mohi

Marisa Mohi is a writer and tarot reader. She is the creator of several planners and journals, as well as the creator of the Art Like a Boss program. She lives in Norman, Oklahoma, with her fiance, Chris, and her dog, Rosie.

Book preview

The Intern

Bridget scanned the email from her advisor. Library school wasn’t off to a great start.

A few weeks ago, she’d been working in a cubicle farm, already at the upper limit of the salary she was able to earn for her credentials. And she knew that her job wasn’t forever—it was just a stop gap until she found a real career, something that she actually wanted to do. Her purpose, she thought.

But it looked like all the real careers required degrees and experience she didn’t have. And after a quick job search, she found listings for public and university libraries that sounded interesting. Naturally, that led her to fantasize about library school.

Hadn’t she always loved books? She was a patron of her local library, and went once a week. And as far as master’s degrees went, it looked like something she could do. The pre-requisites weren’t too demanding, and she wouldn’t have to retake any undergrad classes.

So, she filled out a form to request her undergrad transcripts, and sent off her enrollment packet.

Because she had applied mostly on a whim, much in the same way people search real estate listings that are out of their price range, she had to find a program with rolling admissions and one that didn’t require any placement tests like the GRE. That did limit her choices, but not enough to deter her.

In the end, she was able to give notice at her job, move from her tiny studio in the city to a nice one-bedroom in a midwestern college town, and get set up for her new adventure. But the quick move and rolling admissions also meant that she had to take whatever classes were available. And the internship options were slim.

That was one of the things that Bridget liked about the program she chose—there was an internship every semester. It meant that she wasn’t always in a classroom, and she was getting real-world experience and networking with folks who might hire her. Or, at least, give her the letters of recommendation it seemed that every librarian job listing required.

Quixotically, she imagined herself wearing pencil skirts, her glasses sitting on the tip of her nose as she re-shelved books or helped patrons fill out interlibrary loan forms. Or, perhaps she’d be training undergrads in the university library on how to use the microfiche. Honestly, she didn’t really know. And had she stopped to think about it for a moment, she probably wouldn’t have uprooted her whole life for a grad program she didn’t know much about.

If she were really honest with herself, this was more an opportunity to get out of the life she had been living than anything else.

The screen of her laptop glowed dimly in her new apartment living room. She was mostly unpacked, or, as unpacked as she cared to be. Cross-legged on the couch, her blonde bangs falling in her eyes, Bridget read the email again.

Dear Ms. Gilbert:

At this time, we only have one internship option available in records management in the city historical society’s archives. The position does not interact with the public, but is responsible for the maintenance and creation of records for the historical society’s collection.

Should you choose to take this opportunity, please note that there is a significant stipend. As a condition of his last will and testament, the former director of the historical society created a trust to pay interns. As a historical society intern, you will receive $2,000 each month during your internship.

If you would prefer a different position, you may defer your enrollment one semester until we have a public library internship available. However, should you choose that option, you will lose your scholarship.

Please respond to this email with your decision by Friday before 5 p.m.

Regards,

Dr. Philbrook.

Bridget read the email a few times over.

Sure, the historical society was not where she had dreamed she would be, but she would be crazy to turn down $2,000 a month—money that she would be paid to receive grad school credit. She couldn’t imagine why no one else had taken this position. What grad student didn’t need the cash? Though she really hated the idea of being stuck in a dusty room full of files and never really interacting with anyone, she couldn’t turn it down. She needed her scholarship, and the stipend meant that she could put off finding a part time job for a while.

She clicked the reply button on the email. At the end of the day, Bridget couldn’t imagine the internship being any worse than her old job.

On the following Monday, Bridget drove her beat-up Honda to her new internship. Three days a week, she would work from 9 a.m. to 12 p.m. at the historical society’s headquarters. She didn’t know much about the position, other than what Dr. Philbrook put in the email, but she had spoken to her a supervisor over the phone. Roberta seemed like a cheery older woman, and Bridget already liked her better than her previous boss.

But as Bridget pulled into gravel parking lot, she began to have second thoughts. The building itself had seen better days. But those better days were so far gone that Bridget didn’t think the building could even remember them.

Located in a section of downtown that had nothing but old law offices and a few historical markers, Bridget couldn’t figure out why the historical society even bothered. There was very little foot traffic, and even though the information the building contained was important, wouldn’t it be better to keep it in a place where people would eventually see it? Wouldn’t that make it more like a museum?

She sat in the driver’s seat of her car and looked at the building for a bit. Eventually, Bridget took a small notebook out of her bag, and jotted down a few ideas.

-location is secluded

-like it’s trying to hide

-thesis project?

-proposal to move archives to the university?

-better on display, more interaction, more foot traffic

Even though she wouldn’t start classes for a week, she was already excited to get moving, and what better way, she thought, than outlining a potential thesis project? She could move the historical society archives to the university, where they would be more accessible and probably better preserved than in an old building that looked like it smelled like dust and mold.

It would be the sort of project she could have as a page in her portfolio, and surely that portfolio would enable her to get her dream job, whatever that ended up being.

Bridget put her notebook back in her bag and got out of the car. She tossed her shoulders back, and stood tall. She could feel the future coming into focus. She would be a star student. She would finish her master’s degree. The historical society would thank her for her hard work and vision. They wouldn’t have to manage the collection any longer, and she’d get her name on a prestigious project with both the city and the university.

She could practically count the letters of recommendation she’d receive.

Her ballet flats crunched on the gravel of the parking lot as she made her way to the door. She smoothed the front of her slacks and made sure the collar of her cardigan laid flat against her collarbone. Bridget took a deep breath and tightened her ponytail. Then, she reached for the handle of the front door and opened it.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust. The sun outside had been so bright, reflecting against the light gray of the parking lot. Inside, the old tan brick building, the one bulb that glowed dim orange tried to illuminate the lobby as best it could. The walls were covered with fake wood paneling that probably had been added in the sixties, and the orange laminate flooring was probably the same age. It peeled up at the edges, and visible dust bunnies gathered in the corners.

Metal-framed chairs lined the walls, as if it were some sort of waiting room. What people would come here to wait for, Bridget had no idea. She took a few steps forward and stopped at the front desk, a chest-high wooden counter with layers of shellack that had been added over the course of many years.

Bridget adjusted her bag on her shoulder. She wasn’t ready for this. This was not what she wanted at all. She imagined her life would be so fun and fascinating once she started library school, but here she was, in a building as uninspiring—if not more so—as the cubicle she left.

She knew she could last the semester. It was four months that paid well for the amount of time she’d actually be in the building. And if she could make the thesis project happen, well. She’d be golden. When Bridget compared her internship tenure to a lifetime of working at jobs like her old one, she could feel her spine stiffen.

She could do this. She reached across the counter and tapped a little silver bell.

The ding echoed through the building, and Bridget waited to see if anyone would respond to it. Just as she was about to ring it again, she heard the sound of footsteps coming from behind the door behind the desk.

Coming! Don’t leave. I swear I’m on my way! The voice was out of breath, and mixed with the sound of shoes scuffing quickly down a walkway.

Bridget recognized the voice. It was her supervisor, Roberta Grant, who Bridget had spoken with on the phone.

Though Bridget hadn’t seen Roberta at all, she imagined her to be the sort of stocky and resolute woman who worked as a public servant in a small town in the Midwest. Roberta had seemed friendly enough, and like she wouldn’t make life hard on Bridget at all. But she also seemed like the type of person who believed too much in her cause, something that Bridget didn’t want. She didn’t want to get roped into doing more than she needed to for this internship.

And at the end of the day, she knew that Roberta might be a stumbling block in her thesis project plan. But Bridget needed this for her portfolio.

The door behind the desk opened and Bridget could see that there was a staircase behind it that led down into darkness. Roberta leaned on the door handle and huffed a bit.

Apologies. You must be Bridget. She stopped for a moment to catch her breath. I’m Roberta. She walked to the front desk, barely able to see over it, and reached across to shake Bridget’s hand.

Nice to meet you, Bridget said, mentally sizing up Roberta.

Roberta was a short woman, no more than five feet tall. She had a tuft of gray curls that she haphazardly collected at the top of her head in some kind of bun. She wore a white blouse with a lace collar and an orange cardigan over it. And even though she had on a knee-length black A-line skirt with black tights, she was wearing white orthopedic sneakers.

I can’t tell you how excited I am for you to start, Roberta said, raising her hands above her head in a gesture of praise. We ask the university for an intern every semester, and we never get one. I say we. It’s mostly me. There’s also Maurice. He’s our janitor. But with the city budget cuts, he’s only here a couple days a week. Which is fine, since I don’t make much of a mess. She winked at Bridget.

Bridget smiled politely. Oh. I didn’t know budget cuts were a problem, especially considering the stipend.

Roberta nodded. "Well, yeah. Different pots of money, you see. The city technically owns the archives and the historical society. We’re a little branch of a small city government. But our former director was one of those independently wealthy people. The rumor is that his family made a killing in the oil industry in the 1920s before he was even born. They were part of some elite circle of folks, so they say. People think he was in a secret society or some other. But people talk. And he seemed like a fine and decent man when I worked with him fifteen or so years ago. He knew that he’d have no one to leave it to when he died. So, in his will, he left it to the historical society and created funding for my job, and an intern. It’s some kind of endowment, and I really don’t know how it all works. As long as