The Perfect Storm for a Book

“Every day is terrible, like a little globe of spice swallowed into the lungs.”

“What an odd description,” says Guy.

“I am full of odd descriptions. Is it not what you love about me?”

“Hmm, I suppose,” says Guy.

“Well, I think my descriptions are perfectly sensible.”

“Indeed, dear. Now, let me read the paper,” says Guy.

I look to the window with a sigh. It is beautiful and stormy. The perfect weather to snuggle up with a book and forget the horrors with.

“Dear, I think I’ll be going off to read.”

“Yes, don’t go too long, though. You get so wrapped up in your books,” Guy complains.

“Hmph. Yes, my dear.”

I excitedly move through the house, up the stairs, and into the bedroom. There is a shelf on the wall that the bed faces. I run my fingers along the spines of the books until I find an interesting title. The house shakes with a wind of thunder and lightning as I pluck the book from its place on the shelf. I open to the first page and plop onto the bed, bringing the covers to my chest as I lounge in bed.

The words stare at me, then float into the air and dance with the rhythm of rain and thunder. The wind squeals into the house. The words move with the sound.

Well, I was not expecting this.

I close the book and I am not here, not there, not anywhere I know of. I see a person at a desk, with a sign reading Librarian hanging down from the ceiling. I look around and books are everywhere, more than I have ever imagined.

This is not my local library.

I approach the librarian to ask how I got here, and what the fuck, and how do I get home?

Before I have a chance to open my mouth the librarian points to a glowing, something in the distance. I look at the librarian in question and the librarian points more insistently. I turn, and notice a line is forming behind me, so I follow the glow in the selves for what feels like fifteen minutes.

Amongst the shelves, I find the glowing object, a red book. The glow dissipates as I take the book from the shelf with care. I am afraid to open the book. My latest experience might explain why. But also, there is no title or author embossed on the book.

When I open to the first page, it says, “Your turn.”

Your turn. I look through the book, trying to find an explanation, but there are only blank pages. I take the book with me up to the front desk. I open it with frustration and ask, “What in hell’s library is this?”

The librarian raises an eyebrow, hands me a pen, and motions towards some tables.

I look back down at the book and it comes to me—I must write the story. I must write myself home.

Copyright©️2026 Sojourner “Hughes” Davidson

Sorry if grammar issues took you out of the story. I am horrific with grammar.