Bibliomania: A Novelette

By Terry F. Torrey

If paper books were outlawed, would you be an outlaw?

 

Historian Walter Barr loves everything about paper books—except that they have been outlawed, confiscated, and destroyed.

 

So when he stumbles across a dark cafe where the denizens revel in spoken-word poetry and the illicit trade of paper books, Walter feels a rush of exhilaration—like he has finally found a home.

 

Now, with his fearful wife trying to stop him, Walter joins a scrappy crew of paper-book hunters. But what would be worse? Finding nothing, or finding everything?

If you love paper books, you'll love the page-turning cautionary tale of Bibliomania.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Provocative Press
• Release date: Apr 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9780971369795

Terry F. Torrey

Born and raised in upstate New York, Terry F. Torrey now lives in Arizona with his amazing wife and awesome daughter. A lifelong learner, his most prized accomplishment is completing the acclaimed Creative Writing program at Phoenix College. Now, Terry spends his days writing page-turning vigilante action novels, riveting suspense novels with shades of noir, campy but realistic pop-culture monster novels, and an assortment of other quirky, compelling, and heartfelt books and shorts. Be sure to join his e-mail list to be notified of promotions, special events, and new releases of things worth reading, and find all of his work online at terryftorrey.com.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Monroe took a slow, careful drag off the cigarette, leaned over, and blew the smoke right in Walter’s face.

Hey! Walter howled, throwing a hand up. "Not there. On my jacket." He raised his arms and turned to the side a bit, and Monroe redirected the smoke.

Monroe’s breath broke into a dry cough, and he leaned back against the table, nearly dropping the cigarette. Holy cow, he said, gripping one edge of the battered wooden table tightly, "I can’t believe they still sell these things, and books are illegal."

I know, Walter said. World doesn’t make any sense.

Monroe recovered himself and took another careful drag off the cigarette. Walter turned so that he could hit the back of his jacket with the smoke.

They were in a bad part of town, in what had once been a decrepit house and was now a rough little cafe called Stallman’s. It was one of those places the IP agents were always trying to infiltrate, looking for contraband books. Sometimes their searches were successful, but usually there were no books, merely people staring at their viewers and talking about the old days.

One night a week, the cafe hosted a spoken-word performance, where local people gathered to read and listen to poetry and short works until late into the night. This was one of the other nights. The sound system turned out world jazz music, and the crowd was made up of anarchists and various riffraff sitting around wooden tables making dark plans of one form or another. Most nights, Walter wouldn’t need Beckett’s assistance to smell like smoke. This night, however, Walter and his friends had been out on a mission, and they had just gotten here. They smelled a little like sweat and dust, and a lot like success, but Walter needed to smell like smoke and liquor.

Monroe had dissolved into another cough when Beckett pushed through the little crowd back to their table, a small bottle of amber liquid in his hand. Here you go, man. Guy swears it’s the real thing.

Walter unscrewed the top and put the bottle up to his nose.

Good? Beckett asked.

It smelled like antifreeze and aftershave. Yeah.

A gasp of laughter burst from the dark corner at the back side of the table. Like either of you would know, Zeta said. She was the only female in the group, but she was the one who drank and smoked.

It doesn’t matter, Walter said. He tried to make eye contact with Zeta, to convey his nonchalance, but all he could see in the shadows was the red tip of her cigarette. I’m not planning on getting drunk with it. It only needs to convince my wife.

Monroe sat down in one of the vinyl chairs, looking greener than ever.

Beckett cleared his throat, evidently working up the nerve to say something. Yes, he began, well, uh, that part bothers me—that hiding all this from your wife.

Yeah, Monroe said. You should just tell her what you’re doing, and what you say goes.

Zeta laughed.

No way, Beckett said. If she didn’t like it and went to the authorities, we could be in a lot of trouble. At this thought, he collapsed into the vinyl chair opposite Monroe, elbow on the table, palm on his forehead. "A lot of trouble."

I don’t care, Monroe said. It’s totally worth it. He sat up straighter in his chair. Hey, Walter, let me see that page again.

Walter glanced around the room and took the last seat at the table. Monroe put the cigarette in the ashtray and slid it over in front of Zeta, who pushed it over by Beckett, who didn’t notice. They all leaned in close to the table as he slipped a single piece of paper from his pocket.

Wow, Monroe said. He reached his