Strange Books

Where do all the old books go?

Books forgotten, passed to-and-fro,

Stories regected, not wanted, oh,

Where do all the old books go?

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Half an hour later, Eloise was told she could explore the shop a little later, after she had worked out how to use the till and the computer. The majority of the questions had been about what she had enjoyed doing in her work previously, and similar others. She moved on to looking through the records on the computer of the books in stock.

Because today was her first day and interveiw, the shop was closed, so she had plenty of time to prepare for facing the public. The till was pretty easy to handle, but it nearly snapped her fingers off when she accidentally pressed the 'Close Drawer' button.

Eloise bent down, looking at the dictionaries and encyclopedias in the shelves of the desk. These were probably here in case anything needed looking up. She sat back on her heels and thought about what had already happened so far that day.

Firstly, she had broken the handle on the shop door. Sam had temporarily fixed it, but she had promised profusely that she would pay for it. Then, during her interview, her hair had knotted around her hand, and Sam had impatiently cut the few strands off to free her finger. It definately hadn't been a good first impression.

Yet, despite her clumsy blunders, he had hired her withought a second thought. She glanced around at the walls. It wasn't too big a place, so it musn't need much care. I wonder why he was wanting to hire someone anyway...She wondered.

Eloise got up and stretched, squeezing her eyelids shut as she did so. When she opened them, however, she met a completely different scene.

A stack of about four books were clumsily stacked on the counter. She blinked. She blinked again. Had they been there before? Eloise didn't think so. She picked the top one and turned it over in her hands. No, it hadn't been there before, she would remember. She looked round. No-one had been in whilst she was down looking at the dictionaries. Weird. Maybe it had been Sam.

She climbed up the creaky spiraling wooden stairs to the 'Secondhand and Antiques' part of the shop, where he was checking the collection of records that was in a box on the floor.

"Mr. Forrest?"

He looked up.

"Yes?"

"Did you want me to put these books on the shelves? They were on the counter..."

He raised an eyebrow suspiciously.

"I think your disease is acting up again."

Eloise pouted and frowned. "I don't have a disease."

"Huh. Well, of course not. I would have told you to put them away if I wanted you to. What's the point in just leaving them on the desk?" He said quite haughtily. Then he looked at his watch.

"There isn't much work for you today. Once you've tidied up, you can go home if you want."

She nodded, still a little confused and pouting. Eloise looked down at the books as Sam went back to the records, and she recognised them to be worn versions of 'Macbeth' by William Shakespear. She sighed and looked along for the 'English Literature' part of the shelf at the other side of the room.

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Eloise Baker picked up her bag and coat, since the rain had now decided on giving a brief interval, and hurried to her car parked past the alleyway and down the old cobbled road. She lived only two or three streets away, so it was actually very bad of her to take the car, but it was raining when she came out, and, knowing her luck, she probably would have slipped in a puddle and broken her leg or something stupid like that.

She parked the car oustide her front door, house number 13, and got out. Eloise lived in a cute little terraced house, with a blue door. She had painted it herself obviously, and somehow gotten herself coated in the process. She unlocked the door, stepped through the front room into the kitchen, putting her bag down and oening the nearest window to let in some fresh air.

Eloise had a on one of the counters in her kitchen that contained all kinds of memos and important notes. She had often spilt sauce or sugar on these documents, due to her being clumsy, and kept the most special or important ones where she couldn't harm them. Right now, she was writing a note on a post-it reminding herself to walk to work the next day, if it was decent outside (which it probably wouldn't be).

She almost stuck it to the pile, but, thinking better of it, placed it on a cupboard door where she could see it. Then she turned to face the window again. And guess what she saw.

Stacked clumsily but intentionally on the window-sill was a pile of ragged-looking old books.

The End

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