The Silver Pen

I tried to keep my gaze down, stealing glances though parted magazines, and while scribbling notes would catch glimpses of the librarian arranging plastic fruit on the counter, shelving books and assisting the odd patron.  I mused while gazing at my distorted image in the face of the pen whether Brix was the reason that Gertrude kept the library open.  Perhaps.  If they did have a history, it would have been well known already, already reported and largely uneventful, and to inquire further would indeed indict me as the culprit I am.  

  I sat for a long while, quietly, and without focus on the report, let myself lapse into thoughts of other things, books on mythology lined up on shelves beside me, so that Brix’s crumpled balls became hazy and dreamlike, Gertrude sweeping in like a valkyrie to carry off the dead, distracting me from my real purpose, and I sat twirling my pen in my hand, awkwardly uncomfortable and feeling as if every moment spent spinning would arouse someone’s suspicions of why I was just sitting there, idle, but no closer to a report than when I had started,  until I felt I had spent sufficient time to keep my scheming employer’s trust, and came back to reality.

Outside, I could see the whale, imagined the toot tooting, and knowing that I was to report to council the next day, let myself be carried away by Brix’s clackclackingclacking.  The conclusion was foregone, had already been foregone, and was that the cause of my employers’ sneer?  I could not simply report nothing for the cost of doing so was too high – I was already too involved and had to submit some type of conclusion.  The only payoff would be completion, so for every clackclackclack, and toottoot, my silver pen continued as if carried by itself, and with every doomed word mired in this absurd state of affairs I forged ahead as if a traveller so far lost that turning around would only add to their misery.. 

The End

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