By Lance Eaton
Viscous red liquid seeped from the pages of the closed book and crawled in all directions. I thought about what an interesting predicament this was. I pondered what to do.Let the book bleed out, allowing my inner sadist to feast on the sight. Channel my bibliophile horror and attempt to clean up the damaged book. Ride the pounding waves of curiosity and open the tome.
Curiosity won and I coquettishly lifted the cover with the tips of my fingers in such a delicate fashion, one would think I feared I was waking a dying beast. Well, it was far from dying. No sooner did I half-open the book when two purplish black tendrils surged forward and latched onto my wrists.
I leaned back and struggled with the moist appendages but I knew it was a lost cause. The tendrils had small teeth that tore into my skin and giving my growing nausea, possibly seeped some weakening chemical agent into my body. Somehow, my skull made it into the book unscathed, except for an ear. The book wasn’t that big and I felt innumerable bones crack as it dragged me deeper into its bowels.
It fascinates me to no end that my curiosity much more than my sadism leads me into such troubles. But here I am in some perverse reality, where books are people and humans are repeatedly opened wide to be read with great intensity. I wonder about the day when one of these things decides they want to annotate me.