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Ficta
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Ficta (Part 1 of 5)
The door was open, and she had seen him drive off. Surely he would
have a copy of his own books in his home! Why, she could slip in and
take a look, and leave again, and he would never know.
She did not know why this idea slipped into her head. She would never
have thought of such a thing, usually. But it was true: here was an
opportunity to read the very works she had been so frustrated in trying
to find. A silly thing, to be unable to buy or borrow books, the
author of which lived in one's own town.
And it wasn't as if they were cult books, for which doing such a stunt
would be attractive and daring, and something to brag about. They
were on history, and academic theories; slightly dated texts at that.
But what she heard of them hinted at great ideas which fascinated her.
And the more trouble she had finding them, the more she wanted to see
them.
She walked right up to the front door, and went in. There was a study
like area near the kitchen, lined with bookshelves. There, the texts
of many authors were arranged in alphabetical order by authors name.
For one brief moment, the name of the author whose house she was now
in escaped her mind, but then, her eyes fell upon his name in the H's,
and she beamed with pleasure. They were humbly categorized with the
others, and were not set apart. They were slender, oversized books,
hard cover in cloth, and they reminded her of the music scores she got
from the library. She took the set from the shelves and carried them
into the dining room.
On the way there, she noticed a storage room, or pantry, and thought
``should he come back, I can hide in there.'' She tested the door,
only to find that it could not close all the way. At least it would
block her from view from the front door, and if he walked without
looking backward, she should remain hidden. She then went to the
dining room, and spread out the books. She took the first one in the
series, and began skimming through it.
Ah, but they were fascinating! She was soon drawn into the texts,
reading them passages hanging on every word, gazing at the color
plates of manuscripts she had never seen before. And his theories
delighted her mind, she felt like singing, like crushing the book to
her head as if she could push all the words into her brain at once.
One part of her demanded she keep reading the way a thirsting man's
body demands drinking; another part of her was so over charged with
ideas and thoughts, she needed to lay the book down to digest and
ferment the kaleidoscope in her mind.
Then she heard him at the door. For a moment she thought of restoring
the books to their place that he not suspect an intruder, but she
realized she had no time for that. She whisked herself into the
storage room, and pulled the door as shut as she could. She dared not
look out the doorway, for fear he would she her as well as she saw
him. She heard him enter, and sure enough, he walked by. But now he
was in the kitchen, and could see the door to the pantry through the
open-work bookshelves between them, and he had a clear view to where
she stood, were he only to turn towards her. He could turn at any
moment, or perhaps even see her reflection in some stray kitchen
utensil. With that thought, she broke for it.
She exploded out of the pantry, and in a few steps gained the door. He
whirled as he heard her, but he was much older than she, and slower.
The screen door crashed shut behind her as she burst from the house.
She crossed the driveway, running along the house, and it was in her
mind that she go around the house to the woods in back to make her
escape. But then as she rounded the garage a dread thought came to
her: he was a hunter, and he owned rifles, and kept them handy. Would
her shoot her? Her skirt was white, like a swan; she remembered a
story in which an archer shot his true love while she wore the guise
of a swan, and in truth she did not know why she thought of that story
in that second. But moved thus, she darted into the cluttered garage,
to hide.
He entered the garage, searching, and she could not catch a glimpse of
him for fear of betraying her location; she could only crouch and
wait. At last she decided she would break for it again. She sprang
up...and found herself face to face with him, and he stood between her
and the road. His face was lined, and weathered, his hair was white;
his face showed no emotion. He seized her right arm, and pushed her
towards the door to the house.
She entered the house again, this time by the kitchen door to the
garage. But to her surprise, there were people there, idly chatting
and sitting about and browsing thought magazine on the coffee table.
Perhaps they entered with him? He did not get a chance to say
anything, for he was immediately hailed, and corralled by guests who
just *had* to speak with him. And more people were entering. She
found herself unescorted again. She wandered about, acting as casual
as she could manage. After a while, she worked her way back towards
the front door, and she espied a woman calling a cab company.
She requested, in her most offhand manner, if the woman could ask that
they send a cab for her too? And the woman did indeed. It was a
short wait, when she saw a cab down the street. She stepped outside,
unhindered. Walking down the driveway, someone asked,
``Do you know how to get to Civic Center?''
She wracked her brains; ``I'm sorry, I've been away from the area for
quite a while, and I can't remember the names of the highways...are
you familiar with the county? You know the triangle? And the 23
runs along here,'' she illustrated in the air, ``Right here is the
Civic Center.''
``Thank you.''
At the end of the driveway, there were three of her friends. They
hailed her, and looked surprised to find her there, but she did not
get a chance to speak with them for the cab pulled up, and she wished
to dally no longer.
* * * * * * * *
End of part 1 of 5
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