The Books

By Penn Fawn

In Penn Fawn's second short story, Solo, its main character, was the only book of its kind its author self-published shortly before he died.

Concern about his own mortality prompted Solo to plot an escape from a paper recycling facility he was taken to, after his deceased author's apartment was cleared, and his books, amongst his other possessions, were either given away, or in Solo's case, was left for garbage collectors to dispose of.

 

This marked the beginning of a daring adventure in which he eventually found a home at the Brooklyn Public Library, a place where his adventure didn't end, but rather, only just began.

 

There was hardly anyone in Brooklyn, or its city, a placed called New York, or the state, which was also called New York, or the entire country, for that matter, that knew once a book was created, call it bound, that it was alive.

 

. . . books flapped their pages like butterflies do. The thing is, they were very secretive about it. Exceedingly so. It enabled them to levitate, plus they could steer themselves in whatever direction they had a mind to go.

 

They always waited until it was some ungodly hour of the night or early morning when no one was around before they felt it was safest to fly. This way, their secret would never be discovered.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Penn Fawn
• Release date: Jul 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215559062

Penn Fawn

Penn Fawn is the author of the dark fantasy series, Necropolis, and its spin off series, The Underworld, a terrifying place in the afterlife where men who believed they will find eternal rest there discovered that isn't true. They also learned their death was a portal to the continuation of life in that world that was far worse than whatever they heard about hell. Fawn is the owner of Penn Fawn Books, which also publishes short form fiction and coloring books.

Book preview

Chapter I ♠ Nobody’s Manuscript

People think they know so much. They do, but if the truth be told, whatever they’re knowledgeable about amounts to little. The fellow, whatever his name might be, who said, The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing, was a step ahead of ninety-nine point nine percent of men.

If you doubt it, take this story as an example. It is about how many people who lived in a place called Brooklyn, which was a fairly large place, knew.

There was a big library there.

At the time the manuscript upon which this story is based was discovered, the library was still there.

It was located at the corner where the streets Eastern Parkway and Flatbush Avenue crossed. Its address was listed as follows, 10 Grand Army Plaza.

There was hardly anyone in Brooklyn, or its city, a place called New York, or the state, which was also called New York, or the entire country, for that matter, who knew once a book was created, call it bound, that it was alive.

Yes, quite literally.

You may laugh at that but please don’t, because people the world over didn’t know that either.

Did you know?

Well then, why did you laugh?

Moving along.

The late owner and author of the manuscript, a certain Nobody (yes, that was his real name. RIP, buddy) was one of the few people who knew once a book was bound, that meant it would come to life.

He knew books flapped their pages like butterflies do. The thing is, they were very secretive about it. Exceedingly so.

It enabled them to levitate, plus they could steer themselves in whatever direction they had a mind to go.

They always waited until it was some ungodly hour of the night or early morning when no one was around before they felt it was safest to fly. This way, their secret would never be discovered. 

Nobody knew books were notoriously mischievous and adventurous, and also full of craft.

You remember who Nobody is, right?

Books, and everybody knows this, were knowledgeable and wise, and everything else really, because whatever men could have conceived or came up with, whether for good or evil, they often made sure to put the details of down in a book.

Whether it was in scribbles, typeset, bound, published, mass-marketed, or whatever, is not the point.

Again, the point is, they always put almost whatever the workings of their minds were down in a book.

Nobody knew books were the most sexually liberal and promiscuous creations ever. Bar none.

You remember who Nobody is, right?

You remember that quite literally was his name, right?

In any event, he also knew that throughout the history of book creation, there never was such a thing as a book that gave a farthing for being monogamous.

There always was that next book another one wanted to read.

To call or make a statement such as, a monogamous book, was an oxymoron, and for them, practically nothing was taboo.